by Cat Bruno
“Are you certain that I can have clothing made that will not break temple rules?”
Liang again explained what the student had told her.
“You must not know of the celebration after, if you win, I mean,” the girl added.
They were speaking Common, and, nearby, the shopkeeper called, “What of this one? Green, just like your eyes!”
“What are you speaking of, Liang?”
“The marking ceremony. Once a laohu is killed, his stripes are engraved on the victor. You have seen the inked lines, Syrsha. For the ceremony, you might wear whatever you want. Nearly all choose the orange robes, but you are not of Tian, so why not have this chirping bird make you something that might remind you of home?”
After a glance at her ill-fitting tunic, Syrsha walked to the rear wall, and began examining the fabrics. She quickly found a twilight-hued cotton that was as soft as down. She tugged at it, testing it for strength.
When it did not tear, she said to the girl, “This one is the color of the skies just before nightfall and seems perfect for the hunt. And I will have need of something more. Something that none will soon forget.”
Coming up next to her, Liang gasped, “Let them see the crane.”
Her words had been spoken in Tiannese, and the woman screeched in delight, “Yes! Yes! Let me find what you seek.”
Syrsha nearly laughed, but the woman’s excitement was unfeigned, and she did not want to show disrespect. To Liang, she said, “Master Ru will not be pleased.”
“You have not come for him, Syrsha. You have come to build an army. Think on that. The laohu hunt is like the kyzkua, but on a much grander scale. I learned much of it from Laiso. All of the temple will be there to watch, as will many from the province. Once, the Emperor even came! This will be your chance to prove to Tian that you are a worthy ally. Let them see who you will become!”
Surprised by Liang’s knowledge, Syrsha asked, “When were you going to tell me of this?”
“I searched for you last night, but you were nowhere to be found,” Liang smirked.
Her retort was interrupted by the shopkeeper, who cried out, “What of this one? Look how it shines!”
She was not wrong.
The cloth seemed cut from the moon itself, silvery and star-lit. And Syrsha knew that she must wear it. Even from across the room, the fabric shined as if made for the gods.
“What of your seamstress? The dress must be unlike any that she has designed before,” Liang interjected.
“Yes, I will go find the mistress now.”
After the woman disappeared behind a curtained door, Syrsha asked, “Have you told Otieno what you learned?”
“I have said nothing, but nearly all at the temple would tell him what Laiso told me, if he asked.”
“He will not let me fight if he knows I must do it without weapon and shield.”
“But the kyzkua was a greater threat,” Liang argued.
Shaking her head, Syrsha began to explain, but had not finished by the time the women arrived back. Joining the shopkeeper was an older woman, more aged than even the food vendor had been. Her hands were wrinkled and folded and gave Syrsha pause.
Yet her voice was steady and kind as she said, “Wei tells me you desire a gown made of this silk.”
Switching back to Tiannese, Syrsha agreed, and shrugged toward Liang, for she did not know how much to admit to the shopkeepers.
It was Liang who explained what it would be needed for, and also made both women vow that they would not speak of what it was that Syrsha needed. Her request was unusual, so much so that none other had ever asked for such a dress. It was rare that a woman would challenge the great cats, Syrsha had learned. And unheard of for the woman to not be from Tian.
“You are born of fire, child. We have rows of red silk that might better suit you,” the old woman wheezed.
In Tian, five elements ruled all, from Emperor to peasant: fire, water, earth, metal, and wood. It was not the first time that Syrsha had been reminded of her fire-mark, but she was not an Elemental, like Jarek. The Tribe could call for flames, yet the Elementals had come after them, or so Gregorr had told her long ago. In truth, she had never much liked learning of such history.
“Earlier this morn, I heard the tale of Chang-a and her immortal crane,” Syrsha admitted. “When I first spotted the creamy silk, I again thought of both. Can you make such a gown? One that none in Tian would soon forget? One that even Chang-a might don?”
“I have held a needle since I was no more than three. I can make such a gown,” the old woman huffed, annoyed that Syrsha questioned her skill.
As Wei unraveled the fabric, she sang, “Look, Mistress Min-Xi, it is uncut! I found it behind some common hemp cloth.”
Slowly, Min-Xi made her way to the long table, where the silver-pearl fabric lay unrolled.
With her sun-spotted hands patting at it, she stated, “A plain weave, yet laced with some sort of shining thread. I have seen nothing like this and did not know that it had arrived.”
“Girl,” she called, waving for Syrsha to near, “This is more sheer than most silks, yet it has some strength to it.”
Syrsha furrowed her brow and looked toward Wei. “I know nothing of such things.”
Wei replied, “It will drape well, and with your height, Mistress Min-Xi will be able to make few cuts. The only concern is that this fabric is not solid like the others. No woman of Tian would wear it for that reason alone. It will barely mask your skin. And the Temple might not allow it. Mistress could come under penalty for designing such a costume.”
Syrsha was beginning to understand and told them, “I care not for modesty.”
In Cossima, a land where many cultures flourished, women could dress as they pleased, and men as well. And, after Sythia, where nearly all dressed in half-vests and trousers, the fashions of Tian had come as a shock, despite Liang’s explanation.
Just as Wei seemed ready to object, Min-Xi interjected, “I will make the gown. In truth, I am old and will not be punished overmuch, if at all, as you know, Wei. If I am, then let my last dress be my best. Now, come over here, child, and let Wei size you.”
Once Wei had prodded and spun her, encircling her with lengths of measuring cloth, the woman insisted that Syrsha return in three days. The hunting suit would be finished first, she told her, but the gown would take a half-moon or more. Syrsha cared little, as long as it was complete by the time she faced the great cat.
After, while she and Liang walked back to the temple, she thought on her father. In less than a half year, she would meet him again, Syrsha hoped, trying to imagine the Tribelands as home.
*****
Under a star-patched sky, the ship headed north along the Cordisian coast. Jarek had believed them far enough from Rexterra that he called for a strong wind to speed their passage. Just after sunrise, the rocky cliffs that lined Eirrannia’s western border appeared, black and towering.
The Elemental joined Azzaro and Blaze near the steering block, listening as the captain instructed the younger man on how to operate the ship. Blaze guided it past the emerging cliffs as Azzaro heartily encouraged him.
“I have not been this far north, Jarek, and know not where to make entry,” Azzaro said soon after, with a more serious tone and a drawn face.
“The cliffs cannot be endless,” Jarek sighed. “Blaidd should know something of the terrain. Let me find him.”
When they returned to the prow, the Tribesman told the others what he knew of the Eirrannian coast. Few tried to enter from the west, for the waters were rough and the rocks infinite. His words offered little assistance.
“What would you have us do?” Azzaro sharply asked.
Jarek had found Blaidd sleeping, and, now, he stood against the fire-streaked morning sky wearing only loosely fitting trousers. Slashing across his back and chest were the unhealed scars from the atraglacia binding. His face had been untouched, and Blaidd did not complain of the reddened welts that might always r
emain. Still, it angered Jarek to see what had been done to the Tribesman, who had done nothing to deserve such torture.
Despite his injuries, Azzaro did little to hide his displeasure with the man, who slept overlong and helped little.
“There are some openings further north, I have heard. But the ports are hard to find, and only known to the locals and the fennidi. We need not find them at all, though. Drop anchor soon, and I will have my father send the epidii.”
“When were you going to tell us of this plan?” Azzaro fumed.
With a shrug of his bare shoulders, Blaidd muttered, “When we were near enough.”
Before the captain could reach for Blaidd, Jarek stepped in between and asked, “How long will it take to contact Conall?”
“I am recovered enough that it should not take long, although I lost the soil that I brought from the Cove,” Blaidd said as his face took on a more serious gaze.
They had to flee too quickly from Vesta and had been unable to recover any of their belongings. Without the soil, Blaidd would not be able to call for the earth magic.
“Must it be dirt?” Azzaro asked. “I have a satchel of Covian salt below deck.”
Shaking his head, Blaidd stated, “Salt is of the earth, I suppose. And we are closer to the Tribelands than I have been in moons.”
Jarek handed him a small dagger while Azzaro searched for the salt. By the time that the captain returned, Blaidd was seated in the center of the ship’s bow, with his knees tucked under him and his hands cupped low. It was odd to see him so, for he was rarely so serious. They all watched as he poured salt from the bag and onto the planks. Next, Blaidd reached for the dagger, swiftly swiping it across his palm.
A line of blood thickened, red and shining beneath the early morning glare. As Blaidd tilted his hand, drops of red scattered the salt, until he used his uninjured hand to mix both together. A dull humming, unnatural and drumming, came from his parted lips.
Blaidd rocked forward, dripping more blood onto the pile of salt. Jarek watched as the boy called upon the Great Mother, his hands ending in supplication as his head fell to the ground. He did not speak or move, and the others glanced about with uncertainty. Only Blaze seemed unworried, for he had witnessed Blaidd call forth the earth magic on other occasions. But he, too, stayed silent.
Finally, when the sun was higher yet, Blaidd sat up and opened his eyes.
Pulling his hand to his chest, he mumbled, “My father has promised to send the epidii. And, Jarek, he bid me to tell you that he looks forward to seeing you once again.”
Jarek lunged forward as Blaidd collapsed.
“See to his hand,” Blaze called from behind the steering block.
Jarek ripped a sleeve from his own tunic and tied it around Blaidd’s hand. The Tribesman was weakened still and lay against Jarek like a child. Behind him, Azzaro smirked, but said nothing, for he knew that Blaidd suffered from the spell-casting.
In a voice just above a whisper, Jarek said, “We will not be able to take much. The ship might be lost, Azzaro.”
“I have more,” the captain dryly answered. “Tell me about who comes for us, Jarek.”
With Blaidd half-dozing against him, Jarek told of his brief ride atop the spirit animal. Even moon years later, the day was one that he would never forget.
“I am no small man, Jarek. What if these animals cannot hold me?”
To that, Jarek laughed. “Otieno was larger than you, captain, and was carried far on the back of an epidiuus. You need not worry. The feeling is much like being ship-born in truth, and I would think us near enough to the Tribelands that the trip will be a swift one.”
“Should we anchor now?” Azzaro asked, looking unconvinced. Jarek nodded, and both Azzaro and Blaze made off to the back of the ship. He lay Blaidd down gently, and then searched for his sword. Like Blaidd and Blaze, Jarek did not have much, for he had departed the King’s City in haste. Even his weapon had been borrowed from the captain’s supplies, which meant that Jarek would be returning to the Tribelands in a manner similar to his first visit there, with another unlikely army.
As a child, he had enjoyed the moons spent at the High Lord’s manse, and, more, Jarek had come to know both Conri and Conall. Or as much of them as they allowed, he figured. The High Lord was often uneasy, although Jarek now understood what it was that had made the High Lord so. The Dark God watched, ready to steal the babe, if Conri disobeyed. Jarek had only learned such moon years later. And it was Syrsha herself who had told him.
Even as a girl, Syrsha was aged and wise, having time-walked with such regularity that she was never truly young. She had taught him much, including how to escape the nearly impassable wards in the Grand Palace. Now, she was far east, in a land he knew in name only, and he was bound for her homeland. Jarek knew not what to expect from the High Lord so many moon years later, and wondered, as he often did, how Conri had not yet attacked.
For over sixteen moon years, her death had gone unpunished.
The thought was one of few that could anger Jarek enough for him to reach for the storms. Even now the air around hissed and cooled, as the sails flickered and whipped.
“Heyo!” Azzaro cried, waving his hands to garner Jarek’s attention.
He mumbled an apology as the captain neared and calmed the winds. It had been too long, which he intended to tell the High Lord.
“I have not escaped the King’s City for nothing,” he murmured to himself.
“What was that about?”
Forcing his arms to his sides, Jarek said, “I am ready to greet the High Lord. Nothing else.”
With a grunt, Azzaro asked, “You plan to meet him with thunder? Surely that is unwise.”
Realizing that the captain did not understand the history between Tribe and Elemental, Jarek briefly explained that he would not be able to call any storms while in the Tribelands. Azzaro asked several more questions, including one about the vow that Jarek swore upon Syrsha’s birth.
“Your kin have long been enemies,” Azzaro asserted.
“My kin have long been gone from Cordisia, and I will honor my word,” Jarek stated firmly.
“Yes, yes. Of course. You are more honorable than any I know, Jarek. But what of this High Lord? What is the worth of a vow that one such as he makes?”
Like most Cordisians, Azzaro believed the tales of the Tribe, ones that included how murderous and frightening they were. But the stories were only that, for there had been nearly a hundred moon years of peace between Tribe and Crown. Had Caryss lived, the peace might have continued, Jarek thought then.
“Conri is not his father, just as I am not mine.”
“So it is this nameless one that has little regard for the lives of us mortals?” the captain asked, trying hard to make sense of what he could.
“In a way, you are right,” Jarek told him. “Just as I was required to answer to Delwin, as he was king, Conri had to answer to his father, who is more than king, even though he has long been gone from Cordisia. I know not what Conri has done since Caryss’s death, but I will ask him what he plans next.”
“You fear that he will side with his father over his daughter,” Azzaro stuttered, with dawning knowledge.
“Aye,” Jarek grumbled. “Even as High Lord, he has one above him. One that could strip him of his power and of his life, immortal though he might be. We must discuss this with Kennet. Where is he? I have thought he would join us by now.”
The librarian had become quite ill aboard the ship and spent most of his time lying abed.
“Did you tell him of the epidii?” Jarek asked.
When the captain shook his head, still bothered with understanding, Jarek hurried off to find Kennet. The man knew more of the Tribe than any mortal, although making sense of his utterances was at times difficult.
He found Kennet seated on his narrow cot, green-faced, but alert and chomping on dried wafers.
“Gather your things, Kennet. Within hours, the epidii will come for us and transpor
t us to the Tribelands,” Jarek told him succinctly, having figured out that it was best to keep his words as concise as possible with the librarian.
“Transport us?” Kennet howled, flaky crumbs falling from his mouth. “You mean they will fly us!”
“It’s all the same,” Jarek replied stiffly.
“It is nothing the same!” Kennet screeched as rose on unsteady legs.
“You would not lie to me, would you Jarek?” the man asked as he weaved about the under cabin, picking up scattered pages and quills as he moved.
As patiently as he could now manage, Jarek told him, “Blaidd’s father, and brother to the High Lord, has promised to send the animals for us. There is no other way for us to safely enter the Tribelands, even with calm waters and winds.”
“Tell me of them, Jarek. What do you remember of the epidii?”
Kennet’s question was lucid, and, after a moment, Jarek answered, “When I first saw them, I thought them to be birds, although not like the Crows that we had come across moons before. They are cut from Luna herself, or appear to be so. They glow white, yet it is not feathers that cover them, but fur or hair. Of a sort, I suppose. I am no expert on the spirit animals. But they are larger than you might think, larger than horse or ox. And their wings are substantial. To be astride one is a dizzying ride. That is what surprised me most, I think.”
“There is so much I must say to Lord Conri,” Kennet stated as he laced one of the satchels closed.
“We will be his guests, and he will not harm us because of that. But, Kennet, you must not anger the High Lord. We need him on our side.”
“He is Tribe, and they are on no one’s side but their own. I often told Bronwen the same.”
Kennet’s words had softened now, as they often did when he spoke of the healer. He had known her before she even remembered her time with Conri. He had known her as Bronwen, healer and friend. Jarek had only known what that girl had become, as Caryss.
“What was she like, Kennet?” he abruptly asked.
The librarian sat on his satchel. His eyes clear and focused, he said, “She was the truest healer that the Academy had ever known, and without mage-skill. That is what I understand least in all of this, Jarek. Why she was chosen. Bronwen was without power, and the talents she had were mortal ones and perfected by devoted study. Across Eirrannia, there had to have been hundreds more who would have been better suited to be Rexaria than she.”
