by J. C. Staudt
“Farewell, my friend,” Rostand said.
Raith felt sorry for the thing, but not enough to offend their hosts by trying to help him.
Their walk ended in a sandstone chamber whose walls were carved to look like a grand cityscape, its pillars and windows etched in painstaking detail. A wide, shallow staircase led up to a great sandstone throne set within an alcove at the back of the room. The throne’s coloring matched the layers in the chamber’s sandstone walls, as if it had been carved out of the existing rock.
Lethari stood with Raith before the throne, his warriors arranged with Decylum’s sons in a loose arc behind them. From down a side hallway came the sounds of jingling metal and soft scuffling footsteps.
A slender man appeared at the opening, a pair of guards flanking him. He wore loose-fitting robes with bright patterns woven like the sandstone itself, bands of red and brown and rose and orange. The edges of the fabric were clasped in gold ringwork, and he wore thick circlets of copper and brass around his neck and wrists. The front half of his scalp was shaved clean, while tight curls of black hair tumbled past his shoulders at the back. He ascended the steps and flung himself into the throne, letting one leg dangle across the armrest. “Ach urraim tigueir, Lethari,” said the master-king.
“Duon fortan ain fabhor, gisheino,” Lethari answered, bowing. The other nomads repeated after him.
The master-king twirled a finger at Raith and the others. “Abin ain tilier?”
“Friends,” said Lethari, a smile appearing at one side of his mouth.
“The people of the steel city are not friends. They are slaves. Why do you disgrace me by speaking their words?”
“In the Aion-speech, they understand,” Lethari said.
The master-king’s face grew hard. “It is not the place of a slave to understand.”
“Yes, master,” Lethari said, lowering his eyes. “But these are not—”
“Even so, I accept your offering. They will make fine slaves. You must have fought well to have taken so many alive.”
“We fought well,” said Lethari. “But these men are not of the steel city, master. They are men of the hidden sands.”
“The hidden sands,” the master-king repeated. “And still, you have captured them without chains? Then it is true that they are cowards, and that they cannot be killed is a lie.”
“They are no cowards,” said Sig.
The master-king looked at Sig, expressionless. “We will see.” He turned his eyes upon Raith. “You there, tall one. Approach.”
Raith stepped forward.
“Tell me your name, tall man,” said the master-king.
“Raithur Entradi.”
“Entradi,” said the master-king, bemused. “That is a fine name. A northern name. You have the blood of the calgoarethi in you.”
“If I do, it’s from a long time ago,” Raith said.
“I am Tycho Montari,” the master-king said. “I have a northern name too. This makes us the kin of ages past, though you are still lathcu. Let me see your hands, Entradi.”
Raith raised them, his black skin stretched over the bones like ink-stained leather.
Tycho Montari unhooked his leg from the chair and leaned forward. “Come closer.”
Raith did.
The master-king studied his hands with unmitigated interest for a long time. Afterward, he leaned back and grasped the arms of the chair, deep in thought. “My warriors tell me you can make your hands burn with fire. Fire so hot it turns their spears and arrows to dust. They say it makes bullets turn to lava and it burns flesh like the hardest rains. They tell me you cannot be bound like a slave or caged like an animal; that you can run faster than a corsil. Is this true?”
Raith nodded.
“Show me.”
Raith breathed, slow and deep. He felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck and the warmth rising inside him. He thought of home. Somewhere deep within him, there was a spark. He let his fingertips glow until they were smoldering stacks of ash. When the pain became too strong, he stopped. Wisps of smoke and soot rose from his hands.
“You must teach me how I might do this,” said Tycho Montari, lust and wonder in his eyes.
“It can’t be taught,” Raith said.
“Then how did you learn it?”
“It’s inside me. It’s been with me since I was born.”
“And them?” He gestured toward Jiren and Derrow.
“The same.”
“If there is power in your hidden sands, I will find it. The war with the muirrhadi is beginning, and I must have this power of yours to use against them.”
Lethari was alarmed. “War? What war is this?”
“You have been gone a long time, Lethari. Yesterday I sent Neacal Griogan and his warriors against the one they call Sniverlik, to make slaves of him and his muirrhadi.”
“Let me take my warriors and join him,” Lethari said.
“No. I have other uses for you. You will come with me to the home of Entradi the tall man, and his people of the hidden sands. Entradi, you must take me there.”
Raith shook his head.
“You must take me to see these hidden sands for myself, or you will never see them again.”
“The Scarred couldn’t hold us in their iron prison,” said Rostand. “You’ll never hold us with your stone.”
“Ros, please.” Raith held up a cautionary hand.
“I dare not try to hold you, duireh. I leave you to the light-star’s punishment. Leave my city, if you are so sure not to die. Into the desert with you, and may the sands feed on you slowly.”
“Fine,” Raith said. “Fine. We’ll take you there, but we need horses. We need food and water. It’s a long way.”
“You will have everything you need. Preparations must be made. We will leave on the fifth day, before the light-star rises. But first, Entradi, you must give me your word you will not leave a minute sooner.”
“We won’t.”
“This is good. Now, bring me the young one. You will give him to me, and I will keep him as proof of your promise.”
“Ros?”
The master-king looked at Rostand’s hands. “Ros, yes. He does not share your power. My stone walls will contain the duireh, I think. You are free to wander my city as you please, but if you bring harm to my people, harm will come to him. Lethari, we prepare to go in five days.”
Rostand was indignant. “I’m not going with him. Raith, tell him I’m not.”
“You don’t need a hostage,” Raith told the master-king. “I’ll keep my promise.”
“One day, I may need to trust you, Entradi,” said Tycho Montari. “This is not that day. Today, you trust me. Let this be the beginning of a bond between the calgoarethi and yarun merouil. The young duireh will be treated well. Treat my city and my people the same way, and no harm will come to him. Togti duireh.”
Rostand shook his arms free when the men tried to grab him, but he didn’t resist further. They escorted him down the side hallway. When he looked back, Raith saw the look of fear in the young man’s eyes. They both knew three blackhands could never hope to fight their way through a city of thousands. Raith wanted to tell Ros how sorry he was, and that there was nothing more he could do, but the words didn’t make it past the tightness in his throat before Ros disappeared around the bend.
“The rest of you are free to go,” said Tycho Montari. “I will have guest quarters prepared for your stay. You will have beer and bread, and a cool place to sleep. Sigrede, you and Tallis may go home to your families.”
“You are throwing them to the dogs,” Sig said. “They will not last two breaths out there without someone troubling them.”
“You may stay with them, if you choose,” said the master-king.
“They will dine in my house tonight,” Sig said. “You are welcome in my home, Raithur Entradi. Tally and I owe you our freedom.”
“You’re gracious to offer,” said Raith.
“Do not be a fool,” Sig
said. “I have countless virtues, but grace is not one of them.”
“We accept,” Raith said, smiling.
Raith could feel the master-king’s eyes on him as they left, lusting for the power he held in his fingertips.
The palatial hall opened into daylight again, and as they stood facing the market valley, Lethari grabbed Raith by the arm. “Be careful. My people are unkind to lathcui. To them you are a slave, and you will find nothing but danger in the streets if they see you walking free. The master-king knows this. I am sure he has convinced himself that five days cannot pass without incident.”
“To what end? What does he stand to gain from putting us in a troublesome position?”
“He fears you. He knows his people do not. You have black hands, but most in the streets would not know the difference between yarun merouil and any common lathcu. I do not know for certain, but I think this is a test of your strength. The master-king would put a few of his people in danger to test whether yarun merouil are truly stronger than death.”
“I will keep them out of trouble,” Sig said.
“I hope you do, Sig, or there will be blood in the streets.”
“Is that a warning or a threat?”
“Take it how you will. Frayla waits for me. I must go home and attend to my wife and the business of my household. Be safe, Raith Entradi.”
“Thank you, Lethari.”
Lethari inclined his head and disappeared into the crowd.
“Follow me, and stay close,” Sig told them. “My house is not far.”
He led them up one of the paths cut into the cliff face, and they began making their way down a wide promenade. Sig stayed in front while Tally fell in behind them. They passed a dozen doorways where women labored on narrow terraces, sweeping or weaving or hanging clothes out to dry. Many didn’t even look up at them as they passed. The men gave them the same kind of treatment they had in the market earlier, but they were less vicious up here, where one misstep or bumped shoulder might send someone tumbling over the side to his death.
Sig quickened his pace as they approached the end of the promenade, and Raith saw a woman look up from her work. A wide smile spread across her face, and she leaned down to touch the head of a small boy, no more than three. The boy looked up at her, and she pointed. When he saw them coming, he tottered to unstable feet and bounded toward them.
“Doieh! Doieh!” the boy cried.
Sig’s eyes were already moist by the time he scooped his tiny son into his arms. He wrapped the boy up and squeezed him until they were both red-faced and giggling. “Och, Kai, duireh. Ain tieluos. Ain tieluos,” he said, his face streaked with tears.
The woman came to him, and they held their son between them as they embraced. The little boy hugged his parents’ necks, squirming and laughing.
“Ligueir, muon gradh,” she whispered, brimming with affection.
“Dueiah, li airec,” Sig told the woman. He kissed her deeply. Then he turned and gestured, saying, “Come, Raith Entradi. Shonnie, these are not lathcui. These are friends. They are welcome in our house.”
Sig and his small family invited them inside. Their dwelling was larger than it appeared from the outside—a foyer and two large rooms on the main level, plus a deep fireplace for cooking, and a sleeping loft above. The home was well-appointed and clean to the last detail.
Sig went upstairs and reappeared a moment later, wearing nothing but a loincloth. Shonnie glared at him, but he only grinned back. She frowned and gave him a diatribe worthy of translation, had Derrow given Raith anything but a shrug when he asked.
“I told her you do not care how I dress,” Sig told them. “You do not have insult. Tell her.”
“We don’t,” Jiren said, favoring Shonnie with feigned sincerity. “I’d do everything naked if it wasn’t such a distraction.”
“See? What have I told you, woman? A man should wear what he wants in his own house, and nobody should tell him another thing.”
They supped on blackened lamb and mashed turnips seasoned with spices, strips of cabbage fried in oil, and fermented goat’s milk. They were crowded in tight around the table, but there was plenty of food for everyone to eat their fill. Raith’s thoughts soon turned to Decylum, and to the turmoil that had been taking place in the council when he’d last spoken with Kraw Joseph. He thought of Ros, who was counting on them to free him from the master-king’s imprisonment.
“You don’t own any slaves?” Raith asked Sig, noticing that Shonnie had prepared the meal herself.
“Of course I do. Do you take me for a poor man? I have both muirrhadi and lathcui slaves. Shonnie cares for our home without them, so I lend them to others. It is good money.”
“I see. I didn’t mean to insult you,” Raith said.
“You did not insult. You would know it if you did.”
“The man I’m most concerned about insulting is your king. Will he keep his word?”
Sig scratched his chin. “Tycho Montari is an impulsive man. He gets bored. His desires change with the wind. I have never known a man to stand in his way and live. Do not worry about him now. For now, my friends, life is good.”
Sig was right. They had escaped Belmond with their lives. They were in the house of a friend, who had risked much by putting them under his protection. But being safe didn’t make Raith feel any better. As long as there were Sons of Decylum who might still be wandering the streets of Belmond, safety was the last thing he felt he deserved. That was why he couldn’t bring the master-king to Decylum. They weren’t going home to Decylum at all, he decided. Not yet. As soon as they could, they were going back to Belmond.
CHAPTER 52
Aezoghil
Daxin woke as someone was scooping out his entrails. He screamed, but no sound came out. A rough clawed hand grabbed him by the shoulder and stabbed him in the arm with a syringe. Before he went under again, he saw that he was surrounded by murrhods.
He dreamed, and the dreams seemed to be the only difference between sleep and death; the only way he knew he was still alive. Toler’s screams played over and over as Ellicia’s hands reached inside to disembowel him. Vicky, her dark hair framing a face as smudged as an oil painting, her voice scrambled like a bad transmission. Biyo handed him a cutlass, smiling as the sanddragons ate him alive. Daxin and his mare, torn apart and decaying on the sands outside Belmond, rose up from the dust to trudge through endless desert as ravens and buzzards lit upon them to feast.
When the dreams were over, Daxin was staring at a low wood-beamed ceiling bound in clay stucco. His head was groggy and he was sore all over, especially in his throat and abdomen.
“You’re free to go.” The voice was rough with age, but feminine.
Daxin tried to speak, but there was pain and a dry whistle where his voice should’ve been. What did you do to me? he wanted to ask, but the only sound he heard was the smacking of his lips and tongue. When he swallowed, there was a sharp stinging in his throat. He clapped a hand over his neck. As soon as he touched it, the pain reignited and he yanked the hand away, flinching. The man’s bump on his neck felt smaller than it used to.
“You’re free to go,” the same voice repeated.
He tried to sit up. His abdomen flared, sending him into a fit of agony, and he curled up into a ball. For Infernal’s sake, what have you done to me? They came out as blank words again, with only the sounds of his mouth moving. The thing he was lying on was hard and rigid. A threadbare sheet had been thrown over it, stained dark and drying.
There were soft footsteps beside him, and when he opened his eyes a short murrhod was standing there. Her head was cocked as if to study him, but he could yield no emotion from her expression.
“You must go. Now.” The little murrhod spoke the words with care, her face stern and resolute. Her faded goat-hide smock was ragged, and she wore a necklace of flotsam, with beads of driftwood, glass, shell and bone. A browned rag was pulled tight around her head, its edges damp with sweat.
Daxin tri
ed to speak again, but the results were the same.
“You won’t speak again, eh-calai,” she said. “You probably won’t live very long, for that matter. Now get out.” She spoke as if she had taken pleasure in telling him he was going to die; as if she had enjoyed making that his reality.
Coff on this little sadist. I’ve been laid up for the past month, trying to get healthy again. Whatever she did to me, I’ll kill her for it. But it took all his effort just to sit up. He swung his legs over the side of the table, or whatever it was, and pushed himself up. Pain shot through his chest and abdomen again, worse than anything he’d ever felt before. When he hung his head, his throat burned. His clothes were still on, but his leather vest and tunic were hanging open where they’d been sliced down the front. He looked down at himself to find sutures all across his skin. When he moved, blood welled in the stitches.
He reached for the weapons that weren’t there, the gun first. A bare hip instead of a stock, a bare chest instead of a bandolier. He’d been lying on his back, so he knew the machete was gone. When his fingers went to the loop on his belt, there wasn’t a belt.
The murrhod took a step back, giving him room. “Just this way,” she said, arm outstretched.
Standing was another matter altogether. When Daxin’s feet touched the floor, his insides shook like minced gelatin. Parts of him felt out of place. Other parts felt as if they’d been removed. He shuffled, feet scraping the floor, holding onto his bed, then supporting himself on the wall.
It must have taken him half an hour to get down the hallway to the outer room while the murrhod trailed behind him impatiently. Everything was still foggy, his mind as jumbled as his belly. In a chair by the door was another murrhod, this one withered and feeble, with patchy black fur and half its face covered in boils that sprang from a wound in its neck. It wheezed when it saw him, something like a laugh but nowhere near as pleasant to listen to.
“There is no doctor in the world who can help you now, eh-calai,” it said in a male’s baritone. “How does it feel to be dying?” His accent was crude, each syllable shaped by an unpracticed mouth.
