by Dave Smeds
A dog barked.
Lerina stopped, heart thundering. Ethmurl was still.
The windows of the hold remained black. The barking came from the far side of the grounds, and soon tapered off. Eventually Lerina remembered to exhale.
She was so nervous that she nearly tripped on a squash. They continued on at a measured pace, and before long they had reached the copse in which her father's cottage nestled, tucked in a private spot not far from the central courtyard. She lifted the latch and pushed. The door creaked, as it always did, but an instant later they were both inside.
She felt little prickles of perspiration over her neck and throat. Making sure all the curtains were drawn, she lit a candle. The room opened out. The chamber they had entered was the only large room. It contained a cooking hearth, a dining table, stools, an armchair, and some crates and chests. To one side was a small bedroom, to the rear the door to the outhouse. A loft was above, the only access to it a steep ladder in a corner.
Home. Safe. Many times she had told herself otherwise, but now it was a palace—at least until the end of the month, when her father would return. She savored the sight of it, then, for one of the few times in her life, barred the doors.
“You did it!” she told Ethmurl.
He swayed, set his belt down on the table, and sagged onto one of the stools. “I wasn't sure I'd make it."
She giggled. “Now we won't have to worry about food or water or being discovered. They'll never look under their own noses."
“If it's all right, could I not worry about it tomorrow?” he asked wearily.
It was hard to suppress her enthusiasm, but she knew Ethmurl well enough by now to know that he wouldn't complain unless his need was genuine. “Here,” she said, pushing the door of the ground-floor bedroom wider. “This is my father's room. The loft's mine."
He stood once more, with effort, and headed toward the door. Lerina helped him onto the tick and removed his boots for him. He didn't bother to undress or get under the blankets. Seeing his exhaustion, she left as soon as he was settled, bidding him a good night.
She practically shook with adrenaline, and used some of it checking the cottage. Nothing seemed disturbed, though it smelled of being closed up for a length of time. She hid Ethmurl's belt in a chest and paced. But there really was nothing to do, and she knew that the morning would bring an early confrontation with a disapproving great-uncle. She automatically started up the ladder to the loft.
And paused.
“No.” She smiled, turned around, and headed back to the bedroom.
* * *
XIV
IT WAS A FOREST.
As they approached, parrots glided from tree to tree, their bright colors almost shocking to behold after the drab country the tribe had just covered. Jungle was more accurate a description than forest. Life abounded. The trees were high, broad hardwoods, their shade the parent of climbing vines, elephant grass, shrubs, giant ferns—all without exception vibrant with the green born of plentiful water. The racket of birds, insects, and small animals never ceased.
Most of all, it smelled like life, Alemar decided. Strange that his senses were so attuned to the scent after only a month in the desert.
The caravan did not enter the jungle. The road from the Pass of Hattyre to the Ahloorm had run almost due east across the valley, but now that the river had been reached, the long line of men and livestock turned north, travelling parallel to the heavy growth, along a deeply cut track that ran to either horizon. Occasional stone markers demarcated the road boundaries and measured the distance. Periodically trails merged with the main highway, but always from the west. The only ways heading into the jungle were no more than footpaths.
The shepherds let their flocks range freely in the wide grasslands extending toward the left, which they had first reached the previous day. However, the animals were prevented from feeding on the eastern side, beyond what they could nibble from the fringe of the road as they passed.
“The forest of Ahloorm is sacred,” Fumlok explained. “Do not let sheep and goats inside. Do not cut living wood."
Po-no-pha of the three clans disappeared periodically into the foliage to hunt, observed with envy by the twins. The hunters brought back all manner of game, particularly birds, though the most heralded prize was wild boar. Women, including Peyri and Omi, were allowed to enter and pick berries and melons. The first evening, Shigmur invited the twins and their family to share the pork his women had roasted.
On the second day, the T'lan split from the group, heading back toward the west. The twins could see an oasis on the horizon, one of many fed by the Ahloorm's subterranean branches. The parting provided an excuse for celebration—the dangers of the migration were behind them, and now they had reached the richest of their many pasturage regions, in a year of good rains. The festivities lasted an entire night and day, the T'lan families leaving one by one for different sections of the range, with a large assembly accompanying the ken directly to the oasis.
Two days later, the Ena copied the pattern, leaving the T'krt to continue north.
Elenya sat on the ground with her back to one of the magnificent hoeanaou trees around which the clan had camped. She stared at the forest. The sun filtered through small open patches in the canopy but had yet to climb above the tops of the trees and shine directly on the tents. Alemar still slept, and the women were ignoring their odd husband.
“Good morning."
She recognized his boots out of the corner of her eye but continued to meditate on the distant leaves. “So—the war-leader deigns to converse with someone who doesn't know the laws of battle."
“I even converse with children and infidels,” he said. “How is your wound?"
She smiled impishly. “What wound?"
“In your shoulder,” he said. She enjoyed his puzzled expression. “You were hurt in the Buyul raid."
“Was I?"
“Yes. I saw the cut myself. Your robe is still stained.” He pointed to the brown section of cloth. But in silent dispute, Elenya pulled open the top of her garment. Where the cut should have been, Lonal could see only a scar, already healed.
Lonal's face clouded. “Have there been Hab-no-ken in the camp without my knowledge?"
“No. As a matter of fact, my brother and I have never seen one since coming to this country."
“Then how did you heal so quickly?"
Again the smile. “It pleases me not to tell you,” she said. “Now, do you have business here? I was enjoying the view alone."
“Do you want to see the forest?” he asked.
She looked at him. He carried a quiver and bow, toward which he gestured. “Bring your own and follow me.” He turned and headed straight for the river.
His abruptness caught her off guard, but by the time he vanished from view of the tribe, she was one step behind him.
Almost from the first, the soil was spongy. As it became even less firm, Elenya realized they were not walking on ground at all, but on a network of plant growth. She had wondered where the river was. At no point in their journey had they seen an open flow. Now she knew that the forest was the river. The plants were the banks; if not for their roots, the water would spread over the plain and evaporate, never even coming close to the sea. They had to travel single file most of the time, sometimes cutting their way through vines and brambles. Lonal didn't speak, and Elenya was far too distracted by the scenery to initiate conversation herself.
They penetrated deep into the area, until the land grew so swamplike it threatened to swallow them unless they placed every foot with extreme care. The surroundings opened up, the ubiquitous shrubs unable to find permanent foundations from which to grow, leaving a swath of territory to the water grasses and trees. The whole place hummed with insect life.
“I propose a contest,” Lonal said. He strung his bow, indicating that Elenya should do the same. They had found a comfortable spot to rest on a small island of solid ground.
“I will
shoot a bird. See if you can hit the same bird with your own arrow, before I can hit it a second time."
He hardly had the words out of his mouth before he grabbed an arrow and let fly. A parrot above screamed and began to flutter earthward. An instant later, it jerked with the impact of another arrow. Before it landed, two more shafts had knocked it this way and that in the air.
Lonal got his legs wet up to the shins in order to retrieve the bird. It bristled with all four arrows, every one firmly lodged in its plump torso. There probably wouldn't have been room for another.
“Not bad,” he said. Two of the arrows were his own, marked with a red line down the side of the shaft; two were Elenya's, with a double yellow band just short of the nock. “Now it's your turn."
She smiled. Unlike him, she nocked her arrow serenely and waited, with bow relaxed, for a suitable target. She ignored three likely choices. Then a queeble launched from a low branch. She waited until just before it passed behind a tree, then let loose. The trunk obscured the result.
A moment later, Lonal fired. The arrow caught the queeble just as it reappeared, only a moment before it nose-dived into the grass.
Elenya found it. Her own point had struck the hindquarters. Lonal's shot had gone through one eye and out the other.
“You like to cheat, don't you?” Lonal said.
“Always.” Elenya smiled, graciously acknowledging that this time it hadn't worked. “That was a superb shot."
“I have had a lot of practice. You were introduced to this weapon only a month ago."
“I learn quickly."
“Let us hope so,” he said.
They sat on a log. Lonal held up the first bird and pulled out a bloody arrow tip. “Imagine that this was a man."
“I don't follow you,” she said.
Lonal removed all the arrows, gave Elenya her own to wipe off, and dropped the carcass between them. It was little more than a mass of blood, feathers, and ruptured meat. “We did this from a distance, in a matter of moments. Suppose we had been shooting at a man. Better yet, at four different men. It's not hard to imagine four corpses in as many seconds."
“Maybe not. What if they had bows, too?"
“Then make it six corpses,” he said sadly.
Elenya decided not to be flippant.
Lonal continued, forcefully. “Picture a field of men. They are Po-no-pha. There is no greater glory for them than to meet an enemy, one to one, and prove themselves the greater warrior—the best shot with a dagger, the best rider, the most daring. They have distinguished themselves in raid after raid. They go forth with courage and ability.
“And they are mowed down by men who wait within stone bunkers, from afar. Often they never see the men who kill them. They fall and rot on the rocks, their many kinswomen abandoned to fate. Their land is stolen."
He stood up, braced his bow against the log, and unstrung it. “I condemned you last week more strongly than I should have. I was reminded of matters which do little to help my temper. I was angry not so much at you, as at myself. I let the tribe's vigilance go slack just when the Buyul could take advantage of it. I brought you here to try to amend my lack of judgment."
“I don't need an apology."
“This isn't one. I was right to chastise you. My error was in not being prepared. It is my responsibility as war-leader to see that, when my expertise is next called upon, I will better meet the test. I've thought of one thing I might do."
He held up a red-striped arrow. “The Zyraii are all sons of Cadra. We understand each other. Our warriors wage torovet. We fight, we steal from our enemies, we risk our lives, and, if need be, we take lives. But taking life is not our objective. Raids are a way to win honor and material gain, not to murder. We have a saying: ‘The desert kills enough.'
“But now, more and more often we face the armies of the traders. They have no conception of torovet. They wage war.” Lonal plunged the arrow symbolically back into the body of the ruined bird. “They do not care if the blood of Cadra is completely wiped from the surface of all Tanagaran."
Lonal sighed. “My father was killed by traders. And I have been unable to fulfill my vendetta. Over the past few years I have realized the root of the problem—we Zyraii do not think like our invaders. We don't understand their rules, if they have any, and therefore we do not anticipate their actions. I have been waiting for someone like you.
“I will be frank. I need you. I have seen your skill and your nature. You and your brother have clearly received long and hard training in the military arts. You understand the type of fighting which my people must now learn. Am I right?"
“Yes,” Elenya said.
“I have yet to win your loyalty, but I can hope. I offer you an opportunity, at least. I don't know what goal you came to Zyraii with, but I can provide another of depth and honor. Help our nation remain free."
“Do I have a choice?” she asked.
“God gives us our roles to play. You lost your life your first day in our country by stealing water. I gave it back to you. Now you owe me, and you owe the family of Am and Roel. Until that debt is discharged, you are not free. If you decide to leave, I must order my Po-no-pha to hunt you down and kill you. But whether you cooperate with me or not is another matter."
His tone became almost confessional. “My father was once given an augury concerning my life and the threat of the traders. Because of it, I had to learn the High Speech. He would never tell me why. I never needed to use the language until you and your brother arrived. I suspect you are somehow part of the answer to this challenge. Why else would God have put me through all the trouble you've caused?"
She watched a squirrel race from branch to branch, automatically calculating the lead and force needed to shoot it down. “If I agree, when do we start?"
“Everything has to wait until you are an adult. It is more than three months until the next rite of the pulstrall. If you have advanced in your studies to the satisfaction of the Ah-no-ken, you will be permitted to participate. Po-no-pha do not listen to the advice of children."
“Or women."
“In your case, that has been taken care of."
“So you say."
“There will be problems. But God has performed a miracle, and my people believe in God."
Elenya plucked at the queeble. She had tasted a roasted one earlier that week and enjoyed it. It had pleased her to be able to choose one during the contest. Maybe she wasn't always able to make the rules, but sooner or later, she'd get what she wanted.
“I'll think about it,” she said.
* * *
XV
LERINA SLID BACK AND FORTH on the film of sweat between their bodies. Her hair cascaded over Keron's face, smooth and ticklish. He didn't brush it away. She straightened up, the filtered light through the drapes catching the glisten of her breasts and collarbones. She rocked gently back and forth, the bed creaking pleasantly. Keron inhaled deeply. She had the skill of a veteran and the enthusiasm of a novice.
She coaxed it out of him with full, firm plunges and lifts. He clamped hands on her buttocks and strengthened the rhythm. It was more than an orgasm. To a man who thought he was dead only a month before, it was resurrection. Long after it was over, all he did was lay there and hope for more.
Lerina collapsed against him, tears in her eyes. “Good, huh?"
“No."
"No?"
He laughed. “No. It was too intense. I wouldn't survive another one like that."
She kissed his nipple. “You'll survive."
She rolled off and nestled against his side. Soon she giggled. “To think I have Uncle Ossatch to thank for all of this."
“Beg pardon?"
“If he hadn't virtually confined me to the cottage until my father comes back, everyone would have started to wonder by now why I'm spending so much time here. It's not like me."
Keron smiled and put an arm around her shoulders. “What will you tell your father about us? Will he punish you, too?"
“I doubt it. I'll tell him what I told Uncle Ossatch—that I ran off for a week with a fisherman's son. He'll probably shake his head and laugh. He did last time."
“Last time?"
“I did it before, when I was fifteen."
“You were a brazen young thing."
“I had wood for a brain. He was eighteen, and seemed so heroic. That was the period in my life when I thought all fishermen brave adventurers. By the end of it, I preferred the smell of the fish to that of my lover. And a fish would have been more interesting company."
“So now you've graduated to smugglers."
“Why not? They make better lovers.” She began to throw on clothes. “I'm late. I'm supposed to help Brienna with the evening meal. Best not have her come looking for me."
She bent down and kissed him here and there. “See you after dinner? I'll save you some roast."
“Where else do I have to go?"
She pranced down the loft steps, spry as a fawn.
* * * *
The islet stood nearly a mile off the coast, a forlorn piece of rock only a few feet wide, barely above the surface, the perfect design to poke holes in the hulls of unsuspecting vessels. A huge lantern had therefore been mounted on it, at the top of a high pole. The spot was visited only occasionally by Cilendri coast watchers, in order to fill the lantern's reservoir or relight the flame when doused by storms. The night was still and clear. One moment the beacon was deserted, kept company only by the waves. In the next, a man was there, pulling off his airmaker and buoyancy vest, dripping salt water.
Keron sniffed the ocean breeze, welcoming the air to his chest like a lost friend. He wore a pair of seal-hide breeches, weapons at his waist, his belt hidden underneath the garment. Goose pimples rose, but he faced the wind, standing firm. He was strong again. Three days before, he had felt the touch of sorcery that told him that King's Ransom had returned and Obo was near enough to work his spell. Within hours he had completed the remainder of his convalescence. His relief was acute. He had first won the protection of a healing spell over a decade before; to him, recovery from injuries, however great, should not have involved so much time. At last he was whole.
