by Mark E Lacy
As the Saerani sank to his knees and retched, the hounds drew near and formed a circle around him. Enkinor looked up and moaned. There was no escape now. The leader growled as if in command, and the pack responded by attacking. Enkinor, now weaponless, yelled in rage and panic. Even as the first hound leapt at him, and he knocked it sprawling to one side, two more bowled him over. Massive jaws grabbed his legs and his arms and shook him like a trapped rabbit. The Saerani yelled, trying to fight them off, but they were too large and too strong.
“Get off him, you sons of bitches.” A cloaked figure appeared, beating the hounds back with a staff.
The hounds released Enkinor, recoiling in fear like shamed pups.
“He is mine,” said the man as he kicked the last one away. He bent over Enkinor and threw back his hood, revealing an emaciated face marred with open and infected sores. The cloaked figure laughed through pointed teeth. “You are mine!”
He placed his hand on Enkinor’s head. Enkinor jerked in pain and went limp, sprawling on the ground.
White sheets floated down the street like sails without ships and settled on him gently. Unseen hands rolled him into the sheets and laid him out in the street. The cloaked man began tying a rope around the Saerani’s ankles. Enkinor realized what was about to take place, but he was paralyzed and could not cry out. The man picked him up and threw him over his shoulder, muttering a guttural chant as he entered the nearest ruins. He took Enkinor to a window and lowered him headfirst by the rope.
Upside-down, Enkinor stared, wide-eyed, as the man emerged from the building and pulled a long dagger from his cloak.
Chapter 17
The pain began in his eye-sockets and ended at the back of his head. Benshaer tried to reach up and rub his eyes, but his arms wouldn't move. He tried to move his head and failed. It felt like it was bound somehow. He lay on his back, head higher than his feet, in the clearing where the resari had camped. He guessed his arms and legs were also bound somehow. A wooden frame pressed into his back.
It was dark, and the moon was on the wrong side of the sky. In the distance, the darkness was receding. Almost dawn? How can that be?
There was a sound of rustling leaves as Ardemis and his daughter stepped into Benshaer's range of vision. Both looked exhausted.
“Benshaer of Ranith,” said the elder resara, “prepare yourself. You are guilty of musaqaraq. The rite of optisa begins.”
“Ardemis, what are you doing? What's going on? Why have you tied me up?”
Ardemis took a deep breath.
“You have provided to the sorcerer Raethir Del — called the Changer, and the Gatekeeper — knowledge which you obtained from the Weave, knowledge which, now placed in this sorcerer's hands, may thwart our efforts to prevent the evil Raethir Del plans. Because of you, Raethir Del was able to find the Gauntletbearer and place him in the Dreamtunnel. Because of you, Raethir Del knows of the Swordbearer and may find him as well. Without the Gauntletbearer and the Swordbearer to stop him, Raethir Del will only grow in power. He may finally find a way to obtain the Gauntlets. This we know, I, Ardemis, musaresara —”
“— And I, Ki'rana dor Ardemis, musaresara —”
“— from our own Reading of the Weave.”
“Ardemis, let me explain. Untie me. I'll tell you everything. It's not what you think!” Benshaer strained against his bonds to no avail.
Ardemis bowed his head and folded his hands for several moments. He turned to his daughter and received from her a braided leather corocir. With both hands, Ardemis lifted the circlet to the sky. Benshaer realized with dismay it was his own corocir, the emblem of his purpose in life.
“Ardemis, stop — what are you doing? What is this? What are you doing to me?”
“Behold,” said Ardemis, looking to the sky. “Behold the symbol of the musaresara.”
Ki'rana stepped up and pulled a knife from its sheath.
Looking at Benshaer, his arms still raised high, Ardemis said, “As the corocir is cut, so shall the ruta be sundered.”
Ki'rana reached up and cut through the band with a flick of her wrist, leaving her father holding the two ends.
A chill gripped Benshaer's heart. With a supreme effort, he swallowed his panic and stifled a scream. He wanted to say something, anything, anything to get the resari to stop what they were doing. The man who had been a musaresara felt stripped, his psyche open to the world, vulnerable and defenseless. What have I done?
“Please,” he managed to say, shamed at the fear conveyed in his voice. “Please, Ardemis, don't do this. I'm sorry. I am truly sorry. I didn't know it was him. The boy, remember? Del? I thought he might make a good candidate someday. We need more people. But I didn't know he was Raethir Del. I didn't realize what I had given away to him.”
“We will proceed,” said Ardemis to his daughter.
“Ardemis, listen to me. Just listen to me. I thought I might find a way to stop him from all this. But I had to get my freedom back. I only told him a little. I wanted to untangle myself from his web and use what I knew about him to help us all go after him. Ardemis, please forgive me. I'll do anything to pay for this. Just don't go through with this!”
The gaze Ardemis turned on the man bound to the frame was piercing, the contempt in it barely contained.
“Benshaer, you are an ajar among the resari. It is only right that you be removed. You cannot be allowed to follow our ruta.” The elder resara fought to say no more but lost. “You deserve to die. Consider yourself fortunate that I can’t bring myself to kill you.”
Ardemis held the severed corocir before him. “As the corocir is consumed, so shall the ruta be abolished.”
Ki'rana dabbed some ointment on the end of the leather and struck flint and steel. With a flash, the band blazed. Moments later, the corocir was gray ash drifting to the ground.
Benshaer could not restrain a cry of anguish. Years of training to belong to one of the High rutaya had been destroyed, cast aside like garbage, by the mistakes he had made and by the punishment now being administered. He fought his bonds with fury until the shock had passed and only deep dread and a feeling of overwhelming isolation remained. Beyond the pain of losing his ruta, he was now losing the bolstering the ruta had provided the core of his mind.
“We are not finished,” said Ardemis.
Benshaer opened his eyes. “What? What more will you have of me?”
Ki'rana stepped up and stood between Benshaer's spread legs.
“You are cursed,” she said. “Cursed for assisting the greatest enemy our world has ever faced. Because of your actions, the world may never be the same again. We may have lost our only chance.” Ki'rana's eyes filled with tears, her chin showing a slight tremble. “For this, you must pay. We do not take life, for life is Eloeth's to take or to give. But we must prevent you from doing us and the world further harm.”
At this point, Ardemis placed a small amount of pungent salve on the fingertips of each of his daughter's hands.
“Because you abused your Sight,” said Ki'rana, “we not only strip you of your ability to read the Weave. We also take from you your natural vision. May Eloeth have mercy.”
“No!” said Benshaer as she advanced. “This is far too cruel a punishment. Haven't you done enough by taking my ruta?”
As Ki'rana came closer, Benshaer's terror became impossible to bear, and he fainted. Ki'rana rubbed the salve into the corners of his eyes, tears falling from her own. For a moment, she paused and looked to her father, an unspoken question in her gaze.
“We must,” he said in a low voice. “It is our way.”
She turned back to Benshaer, almost unable to go on. After several moments, she continued. Ardemis looked on in sadness, praying his fallen comrade would stay unconscious till the worst had passed.
When Ki'rana was finished, she wiped her hands on a specially oiled cloth. Ardemis nicked a couple of Benshaer's bonds with the dagger, voicing ceremonial words after each cut. He turned to Ki'rana and took her in his
arms, holding her close.
“Come,” he told her. “Get the horses. I want as much distance as possible between us and this man.”
Minutes later, they fled the scene, trying to erase what they had seen from their memories. Yet, even when they were miles away, their ears kept playing tricks on them. Now and then, they imagined the screams of a man, stretched upon a frame, slowly and with great pain losing his sight as the sun rose and its warm light activated the poison in the salve on his eyes.
Ki'rana hoped Benshaer retained the strength to break his bonds before he died of exposure.
Her father could think of only one thing. Now there are only two.
Chapter 18
“You need a horse? Start in Kophid,” Srellis told me. Visylon trusted her experience, but he wished she was here, in Kophid, and not just because she could tell a good horse from a bad one. It would feel good to have her by his side.
“Come, my friend, save your weary feet,” said the Braemyan horse trader, rising from his stool with a grunt. “Wouldn't you rather be riding one of these noble beasts?”
Visylon stepped into the dark stables. “And exchange sore feet for a sore arse? You'll have to do better than that.”
The trader squinted, rubbing his stubbled chin. He glanced around the thinning marketplace in Kophid. “Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “aren't you a Saerani?”
“Yes. Why?”
The old man took Visylon by the elbow. He pulled him back among the stalls and lowered his voice yet further. “If I were a Saerani on foot, I would get me a horse and get out of Kophid fast.”
“And why is that?” Visylon wondered if this was a not-so-clever way of making a sale.
“One of your tribesmen was in the city the night before last. Night before last? Hmmph, yeah, that's right, night before last. Anyway, he didn't stay long. Made a few enemies while he was here, he did, so you better watch your step.”
“You saw him?”
“Aye. Looking for someone, he was. A prisoner in the Sar's dungeon. Hmmm, you know, a man escaped from the palace dungeon early yesterday morning.”
Perhaps with Enkinor, thought Visylon. No other Saerani could have been in Kophid. What is he doing?
“Did they find the prisoner?” said Visylon.
“No, I don't think so. There was a fire up in the hills, south of the city. Umars were taken out to capture him, but they must've all died in the flames. No one came back.”
Enkinor, dead? I can't believe that.
I won't believe that.
“Well, trader,” said Visylon, “show me your best horse.”
The old man led Visylon to a black mare eating from a bucket. “This is Cabellara.” The mare lifted her head and watched them. “She's strong, she's smart, and she'll take care of you. That's all you need. And she's gentle.”
“Gentle?”
“Gentle as your first whore.”
The trader named a price, and the haggling began. By the time they finished, Visylon was wondering why the trader hadn't fought for a higher price. The trader sold him a saddle, blanket, and bridle and gave him a bag of feed.
“This time of year, getting colder and you going far, she'll need all the energy she can get.”
Once they got Cabellara tacked up, Visylon moved his things from his pack to some saddle bags and tied his bedroll behind the saddle.
On the trader's advice, he also bought a dark cloak of the Ryshak-military style. The best disguise for a warrior, said the old man, was another warrior, especially a Ryshaki. Ryshak soldiers were short-tempered and belligerent. People avoided Ryshaki as much as possible. The horse trader showed Visylon how to fasten the cloak so his sword was accessible.
“Now, it won't be long till sundown. If you keep your mouth shut so they can't hear your accent, you should be all right. But I wouldn't stay in the city tonight. Best you be on your way.”
Visylon thanked the man, made sure his sword was where he could reach it, and led Cabellara out into the street.
Longhorn watched the Saerani lead his horse into the crowds. There was no time to wash the powder from his hair or the sand from his face. He left the Swordbearer's money in a jar on the shelf for the real trader to find, with an extra gold piece, and picked up his scabbard and his irril horn.
A large man stepped into the stable, a smile on his face.
“Ah, Dremel,” said Longhorn to the large man. “I was just —”
Two city guards stepped up behind the man called Dremel.
“That's him,” said the trader, nodding at Longhorn. “He just helped a Saerani buy a horse and slip out of the city. Remember, I expect my share of the bounty.”
Longhorn was already calculating.
“You're under arrest,” said one of the guards. “Put down your sword, tatrai, and that ugly stick.”
In his mind's eye, Longhorn saw the Swordbearer walking his new horse down the street. Soon, the Saerani would be lost in the crowds.
“I'm not going with you,” said Longhorn, buckling his sword over his shoulder. “I'm leaving the city. Right now, in fact. I'll be no more bother to you. I've asked too much of the Sar's courtesy already.”
He had to make his move, now.
Longhorn snatched a small coach-whip from a nail on the wall and snapped it at one of the guards. The guard cried out, hands to his face. Dremel danced out of the way. Longhorn spun around as he crouched, using his irril horn to sweep the legs out from under the other guard.
The irrilai ran into the street.
The Swordbearer was nowhere to be seen.
Longhorn veered around the corner of an iron-smith's foundry and squeezed into an alley, scuffing his shoulders against the walls. Dremel's curses were soon muffled as the alley twisted in a new direction. A little girl leaned from a window and threw a bucket of slops into the alley. Longhorn jumped the smelly puddle and turned another corner. Here, the alley widened a little.
Stairs. There were stairs leading up the back of one of the buildings. A man slouched at the base of the stairs, picking his nails with a knife, hat pulled low over his eyes.
Longhorn barreled into the man, shoving him aside.
“Hey!” said the man as the irrilai took the steps two at a time. “Trouble coming up!”
Longhorn reached the third landing and burst through the door, colliding with another man coming to investigate. It was a Ryshak soldier, a real one. The Ryshaki stumbled back as Longhorn ran into the dark room. A pungent smell, curls of smoke. Candles and a glowing brazier. Longhorn scanned the room, trying to find stairs to the roof.
He stopped, recognizing the odor. Several men sat cross-legged on the floor, splitting packets of yellow powder, their eyes on this intruder, their hands going to the knives up their sleeves.
The lookout at the bottom of the stairs yelled again as one of the city guard splashed toward him, shortsword in hand.
Longhorn saw a busted ladder in the corner leading to a sliver of daylight. He scrambled up the rungs, hauled himself onto a short ledge, and burst onto the roof as knives thunked into the wall below him.
Where was the Saerani?
The irrilai guessed — hoped — the Swordbearer would be using the largest thoroughfares, heading downhill toward one of the city gates. The next building over had a flat roof, and the gap was only an arm's length. Longhorn ran and jumped, glancing back to see the city guard now on the last roof, fighting the drug dealers.
Another larger gap, another roof, this one pitched with wood shingles. The edge was a few feet above him. Longhorn jumped the gap and landed on his stomach, clawing at the shingles as he began sliding down the roof. Several shingles came loose and his hand broke through. He watched as his irril horn went rolling down the pitch. He threw his leg over to snag the horn with one foot before it fell into the alley.
The Kophid guard was running toward him, smiling with anticipation.
Longhorn pulled his arm loose and kicked the horn back up the pitch so he could grab it. Slip
ping as he tried to get a purchase on the shingles with the toes of his boots, the irrilai spidered his way up the roof to its peak. The guard stood on the last roof, judging the risk of his next jump, no longer smiling. Longhorn swung his legs over the peak of the roof and slid, before rolling onto its neighbor.
Side streets branched away from him like dark veins. He could see little in the darkness between the buildings. He had to get to one of the main streets.
Visylon walked the street with the mare's reins in hand. People moved aside to keep from getting stepped on. Others moved even farther aside when they saw a Ryshaki warrior leading a mare.
He would've liked to have asked directions to one of the city's gates, but he guessed he should heed the trader's admonition and say nothing to anyone. Visylon thought he could retrace his route back to the West Gate he had used to enter Kophid, but the horse trader had said the fire had been south of the city. He needed to find the East or South Gates. Returning to the West Gate would mean using up extra time to go around the city. And time was something he couldn't spare.
Somewhere ahead of him was Enkinor.
You failed me, Thesir. They were within your grasp, and they escaped. Hmmm, how should I show my displeasure?
Thesir sat up in bed, drenched with sweat. Aylan slept beside him, a half-smile on her face, one nipple and one hip exposed, auburn hair splashed across the pillow. The Sar looked around his quarters, found his dagger concealed beneath the mattress, and slipped from beneath the sheets to plant bare feet in the soft pile of the carpet.
Something was wrong. He hesitated at calling his guards. What would he tell them? That he’d had a bad dream, a dream in which Raethir Del threatened him? Instead, Thesir slid into his robe and moved to the window, intending to pull the curtains aside and let the day's last light chase away ... what?
A gurgle behind him made him turn back to the bed. Where he had lain beside his mistress, the sheets were beginning to billow. Something seemed to gather itself under the sheets, to grow, to writhe.
