“This poem,” the Maz continued. “I call it the Poem of Romerij,” she added, as if the idea had just come to her. “Have you noticed that young gods are never mentioned, in any religion, ever? Child gods? This poem is the exception. It alone could throw into doubt all of human belief.”
“It doesn’t seem that important to me,” Corenn offered, trying to temper Lana’s interpretation. “What does it matter if the gods have the appearance of children at first? Take Eurydis; did she not first appear in Ith in the form of a little girl?”
“No, the opposite. It’s extremely important,” the Maz objected. “The poem says, ‘Man or god, same naïveté.’ Naïve gods! Do you realize how important the meeting between them and our ancestors was? Do you realize that last century’s drama may be irreparable? That Jal’dara, the birthplace of gods, was perhaps changed forever?”
Corenn and Léti exchanged a panicked look. Lana was giving their journey and duties a much deeper spiritual meaning, and the young Maz’s words were deeply pessimistic.
Their enemy was not only powerful, he had perhaps committed the worst crime imaginable: bringing the gods’ wrath down upon humanity, for eternity.
The troupe and their pilgrims got on the road early the next morning, starting the hardest part of their journey: the trek across the Wet Valley.
This territory stretched from the Brantaque Mountains to the Murky Mountains, the two main mountain chains in Romine. The Wet Valley was nothing more than a corridor between southern Arkary and the Old Country. The landscape was filled with swamps and few trees, swept by an unceasing frozen wind.
The place was inhospitable to the point of near desertion. Only a few recluses and listless farmers claimed land here. Unfortunately, the wild, lawless landscape attracted a third kind of person: mounted brigands, horsemen ready to kill for the smallest silver monarch.
Merbal of Jidée had been the most famous, and his reputation, along with his successors’, helped keep Romine isolated from the other Upper Kingdoms by blocking off the easiest trading route.
Luckily, the heirs wouldn’t have to travel through the entire length of the valley. They just had to reach the Murky Mountains on a fairly safe route, navigated by generations of Lorelien merchants. They need be vigilant for only two days, and then they would reach Semilia, a town that represented a relatively safe haven.
Deshine was the last frontier before this wild country, and as soon as the town was out of sight, they saw no more signs of civilization. The wagons waded through deeper and deeper puddles, the road dissolving into a path—a path that started to disappear in places. To prevent the wagon wheels from getting stuck in the heavy pond muck, the troupe took a number of detours, which slowed their progress. Each detour greatly irritated Grigán, who was mounted and had no trouble cantering through the puddles.
“We should abandon the wagons and follow our route alone,” he proposed to Corenn. “We’re losing too much time.”
“We will need the troupe to ease our passage at the frontier,” the Mother responded.
“We’ll find something. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And we’ll die of cold in the mountains, with no wagon to shelter us,” Corenn continued. “We have no choice, Grigán.”
The warrior reluctantly agreed. It was still easy for him to plan as if he were traveling alone, as he had done for so long. Having lived for two years in Arkary, he didn’t worry too much about snow or cold nights, and alone, he would have made it to Semilia in barely two days. He knew that it would be too much to ask everyone to do the same.
The winds began to howl. They wouldn’t stop until the troupe reached the Murky Mountains. Coming from the north, the winds were strong, cold, and dry, and they brought with them the occasional hailstorm.
“The wind,” commented Léti, who rode next to the smaller wagon, the one reserved for the women of the group. “It sounds like the ghosts’ singing, in the library.”
Neither Lana nor Corenn responded, but they silently agreed, and found no comfort in the sound. The Maz added another layer to her travel clothes, and her friends quickly followed suit.
Later in the day, they directly crossed a three-hundred-foot-long lake, never more than two feet deep. Grigán had found the ford on his own, which saved them at least a dékade. If Nakapan was skeptical at first, he was full of compliments once they had reached the other side.
“I hate rainy places,” Rey said, looking out over the half-frozen muddy ponds. “To think that last dékade, we were in the Land of Beauty!”
“It never rains here,” Grigán corrected him. “The water comes from snowmelt in the Brantaques and the Murky Mountains. In five moons, this lake will be three times larger than today and at least five feet deep.”
The actor contemplated the landscape, which endured such intense seasonality. How could anyone live here? Even flora and fauna were hard to find.
Old Anaël, who had befriended the heirs, told of how he had found the wolf cub, Merbal, in this valley. The animal had gotten caught in the rapidly rising waters, which had transformed a long stretch of land into a shrinking island. The Rominian saved him from his mistake, and thus a juggler became “the master of wolves.”
He shared his knowledge of the land with the pilgrims, pointing out the valley’s leathery plant life, gray algae, Burak’s willow, preacher’s herb, selsasses, swamp bushes, and other plants unique to this harsh place. The animal life was no less diverse: vorvans, capped gulls, margolins, domalianders, gerbils, and even a viper’s nest that they cautiously avoided. No one wanted to see hundreds of snakes biting at their horses’ ankles.
The person who would have most appreciated this knowledge was conspicuously absent. Bowbaq was occupied with something else that was just as captivating. He was teaching Yan to be an erjak.
“Animals . . . they don’t think like us,” the giant told his captivated student. “They don’t think at all, actually. They don’t need to—everything they do, they do naturally. If they’re hungry, they eat. If they’re tired, they sleep. If they sense danger, they flee. Simply put, if an animal hesitates . . . it wouldn’t be one. It would be like you, me, the others: an intelligent being. And it would be dead in a few days.”
Bowbaq was almost talking to himself, tirelessly working with poor Ifio. The giant had not yet removed the poor creature’s chain, but he hoped to try it soon, as soon as they were able to coax the creature to calm down. The mimastin would be a perfect example for their lessons. The little monkey would be more than just a test subject. The giant wanted to give something to the animal, something that would heal her wounds.
Yan guided their wagon, distracted by the conversation. Everything Bowbaq had said seemed like obvious fact, but what the rest of the world simply intuited and guessed at, Bowbaq’s experience made clear and true.
“You don’t have to wait to form words,” Bowbaq continued. “Feelings alone will work, or, even better, images. Your mind translates these into words, but animals do no such thing.”
“I understand.”
“That’s what I can teach you, my friend. I don’t know a recipe for how to enter a mind. I can’t explain how the power functions. If you can’t do it yourself . . . I can’t help you. I can only help you get used to . . . uh . . . to what you see in the animal’s spirit.”
“We agree then.” The young man nodded. “When can we start?”
The giant didn’t know how to respond. He would have preferred to save this for much later. His timidity resurgent, he worried that his lessons would be pointless, and that he wouldn’t be able to teach his student, who was so much smarter than he.
Yan could sense his concerns and took charge. “The best way to do it would be for you to explain the main ideas before I try anything. You must have a stack of warnings to give me? With Corenn, my lessons always start with those.”
“Yes,” the giant confirmed, calmed by his friend’s confidence. “For example, there are three cases where it is useless to tr
y to contact an animal: when they think their lives are in danger, when they think their babies are in danger, or when they think of you as prey.”
“That I can understand easily,” Yan said.
“It’s equally difficult if the animal is injured—impossible if you injured it—or if it thinks you are threatening its territory.”
“I didn’t know there were so many conditions for this to work.”
“Yes, of course. You can always establish a contact, but sometimes a dialogue is impossible.”
“A little bit like Grigán, actually,” Yan joked playfully.
They smiled together. Making fun of Grigán’s seriousness was typical of the group’s jokes, ever since Rey established the precedent. Jokes aside, they both held the warrior in the highest esteem, just as all the others did.
“In a general way,” the giant continued, “it’s easier to contact females. With males, there is always a fight for dominance. It is something difficult to handle. It’s easier with predators as well, because their motivations are fairly similar to our own, actually. Selfish.
“On the other hand, grazers have a kind of herd mentality that we struggle to understand. Apart from their own survival, their behavior follows that of the chief, the dominant male. In fact, it’s easier to communicate with a bear than a horse.”
Yan nodded often, engraving all of Bowbaq’s wisdom into his memory. The giant talked, and talked, and talked. And Yan learned more and more, driven by simple curiosity and intellectual interest, without knowing that someday soon, it would save his life.
Zamerine shivered with excitement. Never, in his many years serving Zuïa, had he enjoyed his work so much. A true frenzy of activity buzzed around him, the sound of it so engrossing that he had used all of his intelligence and leadership to accomplish his task.
The High Diarch, his master, had finally revealed part of his plans, and the Judge felt his admiration for Saat double. What genius! What ambition!
The plan Saat had etched was the largest undertaking in human history. But was Saat even human? This idea and the possibilities it would bring matched the audacity of its creator. Unbelievable. Eternal. Perhaps demented? The gravity of the plan was too much, and the Judge pushed those thoughts aside. There was work to be done.
Not only did his master have the vision and the courage for such a plan, he also had the means. Over eighty thousand souls had been enslaved in only a few moons by Gor the Gentle’s army. Now, the killer understood, they were finally going to put these laggards, who had only slowed the army, to work. Saat had always known their purpose, but he had announced it only when they reached the army’s current encampment, where they would remain until they launched their massive attack.
Until that day, Zamerine had been put in charge of the work, and Dyree assisted, along with eighty-five of Zuïa’s messengers. Through pain and suffering, the slaves had learned to fear the red killers, and to obey their orders. The Züu were the best guards for hopeless men.
Prior to learning their fate, Zamerine had suggested that the workers not be allowed to sleep or eat, as they were so easily replaced. This would have saved time and resources, but Emaz Chebree had improved the idea. To only the most fervent worshippers of their god, Somber, would be given a little water, a little bread, and some time to pray . . . or sleep.
Immediately after this command was relayed to the troops, the cult had a resurgence in faith, and the High Diarch was quite satisfied—a rare occurrence. Even his son seemed to stir a little and occasionally acknowledged Saat’s apostles, Zamerine, Chebree, Gor, and Dyree. No one else mattered to the young master.
Their army held a strong position, controlling the entire territory between Col’w’yr—more simply referred to as the Gray River—and the Liponde’s warm waters. Raids continued in the Thalite Kingdom, but the most important work was done here, at the foot of the mountains.
Zamerine raised his eyes and contemplated his next adversary. The size of the task was considerable, and they would certainly encounter many obstacles, but with his resources, nothing seemed insurmountable. And the stakes were worth it, absolutely worth it.
Before the end of the year, his master would conquer the Upper Kingdoms: Goran, Lorelia, Romine, Ith, Kaul, and Arkary.
What Saat wanted to do with these kingdoms held little interest for Zamerine, as long as he found himself governing Lorelia, as promised. From his seat of power, Zuïa’s laws would reign supreme.
The heirs, like the street performers, were happy to see an end to their first day in the Wet Valley. After numerous detours, stuck wagons, and the constant threat of attacking brigands, they were all exhausted, and Nakapan had them all stop to rest as the first tendrils of fog rose from the swamps. It was the evening of only their second day of travel.
Grigán protested halfheartedly, but even the warrior, anxious to reach Pont, had to submit to nature’s forces. The decision made by the colossus proved to be a good one. In less than a centiday, the entire party was surrounded by a thick fog. Corenn’s suggestion that no one go far from camp was unnecessary. No one wanted to stray too far in such a fog.
With nightfall still far away, the heirs searched for small tasks to busy themselves and pass the time. Corenn and Lana sat on their wagon and discussed their theories on the Poem of Romerij, while Grigán and Léti proposed to train with the acrobatic warriors. The other heirs gathered to watch what promised to be a memorable battle.
The two acrobats, one with his two sabers and the other with his poleaxe, were confident enough in themselves that they took the idea lightly. They were quickly disappointed. Starting out reserved, almost timid, Léti’s and Grigán’s attacks quickly became more rapid and violent. The heirs had taken the first few passes to study their opponents’ movements.
The way the warrior and the young woman fought side by side impressed even the most skeptical in the troupe. The two heirs dressed in the same black leather outfits, sported the same concentrated face, and sometimes even simultaneously attacked with mirrored techniques, as if part of a rehearsed dance. The acrobats’ condescending smiles soon faded, and were replaced by angry grimacing. Who were these foreigners, showing up the professionals?
The touches were done softly, but were no less humiliating. Léti was “injured” twice, as was the man with the poleaxe. The acrobat holding sabers was less fortunate, having been “wounded” four times. Naturally, Grigán left the game unscathed. Seeing the faces of his opponents morph from frustrated to angry, he stopped the fighting before it devolved into a more serious affair.
Yan joined Bowbaq and Rey, noisily congratulating the victors, while their adversaries saluted them courteously. Léti planted her rapier in the ground and ran to her friends, throwing her arms around a surprised Yan’s neck.
Yan put his arm around her, trying to figure out how he had earned the pleasure. He quickly abandoned the thought, deciding it better to enjoy the feel of her against his chest, if only for a few moments. The embrace stretched for a beat, and then the young woman untangled herself with a smile and rejoined Grigán for the rest of her training.
“With your white hair and red face, you could be our very own amuseur,” Rey said in a mocking tone.
Yan took his eyes off Léti and looked at his friends, blushing more intensely. The actor winked complicity, while Bowbaq smiled so all his teeth showed.
“She’s happy she won,” Yan said, naïvely pointing toward Léti.
“We saw that,” Rey said with a knowing smile.
Yan regretted having talked to the actor at all. It would only make him the target of more salacious mockery. The same thing he had feared in Eza, six dékades earlier, in a distant past. He decided he had nothing more to say.
Rey turned toward Corenn and Lana, sitting twenty feet away next to a campfire. The diplomatic Mother and the moralist priestess talked as they studied a sheet of paper. Apparently, they disagreed on a few points, but they each tried to calmly acknowledge the other’s understanding of the
text. The comedian couldn’t hear a word they said. He only had eyes for Lana.
He approached Yan, who had refocused on the combatants. Then he whispered, in a serious tone, “What are you waiting for? Why not ask for her Promise?”
Yan swallowed and looked at the actor, bewildered. It was the first time anyone had spoken to him so frankly.
“The day is past,” he whispered back. “Next year . . .”
“Or the year after? Why not right now?”
“Why . . .” The young man couldn’t finish his thought.
Rey was right. Why not, after all? Here, in the middle of the Wet Valley, while surrounded by friends? They were lost in the mist with a troupe of Rominian entertainers. He had no better reason to do it than the very best of reasons: the desire he felt for her.
Why always wait for another day? The future could bring better times, or there would be no more chances. What better time than now?
Yan took a step toward his friend, then a second, before freezing. He remembered why not. Usul.
He Who Knows had foretold their Union, the one thing Yan desired most in the world. But the god had also foretold Grigán’s death and the crumbling of the Upper Kingdoms. Yan would do his best to stop that future, but what he didn’t know was if Grigán’s death could be prevented by sacrificing Léti’s Promise.
Once again, the young man was paralyzed by his knowledge, and incapable of acting for fear of causing the coming evils, or preventing his greatest wishes.
With a lowered head, he returned to Rey’s side. The actor made no comment, but if Lana weren’t a Maz, he knew exactly how he would act.
The next day in the valley was similar to their first. Spared from attacking brigands, the column arrived at the feet of the Murky Mountains with no trouble. They started their climb at dawn on the Day of the Weaver, six days before the Day of the Earth and Pont’s festivals.
Shadow of the Ancients Page 13
