Given to the Earth

by Mindy McGinnis

  “Kakis!” I find my feet, the memory of the Hyllenean boy striking too deep to let me sit still. I will kill the fadernal or release it from the cat’s claws. Either way, it will be over.

  The Tangata slinks toward me, brought on by my call. Red is smeared across her whiskers, a spray none could shed and yet live. We eye each other cautiously, and the cat approaches, head pushing into my palm.

  “Rough beast,” I say to her. “I know you well.”

  And though it is true, I remember also the deep pain I felt at the sight of that Hyllenean child, the instinct of all the mothers gone before me raging in my own veins as I brought righteous vengeance to the cats that had harmed him.

  I know hate, yes. I know it well.

  But there is a part of me that loves with equal heat.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ank

  I take little with me, aware that what serves me best hangs in the pouch around my neck. But the Lithos argues for a weapon made of steel, so I accept, sliding a knife into my boot. He does not know of my real force, the faded caul, the remnants of my own skin that lets me see past his. His and others.

  After a tight nod, I leave him behind, the night air of Pietra cold and carrying a tinge of blood. I think one who braved the Culling Day may have found release through the sharp edge of a Hadundun leaf. Witt has kept from me the stories of Pietra gone to self-death, found bloodless and empty on the forest floor, the roots of the dark trees swollen with what they spilled. Hope is spilling from these people, and their Lithos would not have me know that those my soldiers fight beside may wield weapons with something less than conviction.

  Still, I hear things. The Feneen know well how to live in a world that hates us. Keeping our heads down and mouths quiet makes it easy for others to forget we are here, and for us to hear all manner of tales. The horse underneath me snorts at the smell of freshly spilled blood, but it fades quickly, and from the corner of my eye, I see a Hadundun stretch with new strength, growing a few handspans as it drains whatever poor Pietra sought death at its base.

  “On, then,” I say to my horse. I’ve had enough of the Pietra and their stones, the trees that drink death and boats not made to sail.

  “Where to?” comes a response, and I have a brief moment of confusion. A light laugh comes from my stoneward, one I know well.

  “Nilana,” I say, not surprised that she has caught me in a leavetaking meant to be seen by none.

  “Did you suppose it was your horse that questioned you?” she asks, and I follow her voice, breaking through some low brush to find a small fire and a low cave, her dark eyes tight upon me as I rein in.

  “Which is more likely?” I counter. “That my horse should speak to me or that a woman with no arms and legs should find her way into the woods and build a fire?”

  “This woman has many arms and legs to do her bidding, though they be not her own.”

  I grunt in response. There are many Feneen men—and some women—who jump to do Nilana’s bidding. A gaze from under her full, hooded eyelids has added more than a few Pietra to her circle, I don’t doubt. A glint of steel from deep in the cave catches my eye, where one such set of arms and legs rests now.

  “What brings Ank of the Feneen to the road in the dark?” Nilana pushes. “He goes with steel in his boot and a grim face. I think it bodes poorly for those he rides to meet.”

  “And perhaps for those I leave behind,” I tell her, dismounting. There is no other among us whom I trust to guide the Feneen, should I not return, though in truth I had hoped to keep the arrangement between myself and the Lithos. Many minds knowing a thing leads to tongues spreading it to more. I settle beside her, soaking a bit of warmth from the fire.

  “You return home,” Nilana says, glancing at me.

  “Why ask if you know the answer?”

  “Why bother questioning a man who answers with questions?” she says, and I can’t help but smile. Nilana won’t let me leave until she has what she wants, and no amount of misdirection will lure her from that point.

  “I go to Stille,” I confirm. “To see what can be learned.”

  Nilana nods. “Hadduk said as much.”

  “Hadduk should not know,” I say, irritated that the Lithos shared our plan with one I do not trust. “And neither should you, if that’s how you came about the knowing of it.”

  Nilana shrugs. “I have Hadduk’s ear.”

  “Is that all?”

  She only smiles at me, but I have my answer.

  “You were to be for the Lithos,” I remind her.

  “A Lithos is not to be distracted,” she tells me. “And this one has unblinking focus. I know how to bring a man to me, and that one won’t come.”

  “How then shall we bind ourselves to the Pietra, once the killing is done?” I ask. “Bringing you together with him would hold him to his word, yourself a formidable Feneen alongside the Lithos, blending us as one.”

  “That was the idea, yes,” Nilana admits. “I don’t recall our plans including you on a horse pointed toward Stille, with your mother on your mind. Yet here we are.”

  Once again, she has me. I can only grunt.

  “Odd how plans change,” she adds.

  “I hear,” I say. “Yet I know where I go and what I do, and you cannot say how the Lithos’s heart will feel toward the Feneen once we are no longer of use to him.”

  “I do not know that the Lithos has a heart.”

  “He does,” I assure her, remembering the flash of pain I felt when I touched him. “He hurts, the same as any man. Maybe more.”

  “Still, I am not to his liking, and fit Hadduk’s hand nicely.”

  “I thought you despised him?” I say, aware that I will not win her over to the side of the Lithos and so choose to pester her.

  “If I cannot warm the bed of a cold Lithos, why not find some distraction with the Mason?”

  I nod but hold her gaze, knowing there is more. Nilana has traded barbs with Hadduk often, and while being at his side would surely gain us knowledge, she would never go there solely out of guile.

  “He knows his way around a woman,” she finally admits. Though the fire burns bright, I think she may be blushing.

  I laugh, the sound too often unheard among these stones. “Nilana of the Feneen, I think you may have met your match.”

  “Only under a blanket, perhaps,” she says. “My mind could best his any day.”

  “There are times it tests mine,” I admit.

  “And times it does more than test,” she says archly. “But who then shall be for the Lithos?”

  “As you said, plans change,” I say, rising to my feet. “It will be clear, in time.”

  “Ride safe,” Nilana says as I mount my horse, the heat of the fire already leaving my body. “And beware those leaves.”

  “Mind your own self,” I tell her, and ride into the night. I glance back once, to see that Hadduk has joined her, his face different when he looks upon her in the firelight, their heads close together over its flames. I spur my horse and leave them behind, knowing that if the Mason can be softened, so too can the Lithos.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dara

  The plains of Dunkai are behind us. The dead swath of land where the Indiri died—and where I was born—still bears witness to what happened there. I stopped for a moment, laid my hand upon the dirt that used to be my people, and told them where I am headed, and what I will do there. Kakis stood at a distance, tail twitching in the sun, the blood of another hunt on her whiskers.

  The sun on the plains is as merciless as my Tangata, and when the first stands of trees appeared, I greeted them in Indiri to thank them for the shade, but there was nothing in them to answer me. These trees do not know my tongue, as my eyes do not know their leaves. Kakis skirted widely around one, as a cat will, trying to appear unconcerned, though I saw her muscles were bunched
to run from an enemy yet undiscovered. I do not care for the trees either, and we keep our distance, preferring to sweat in the sun than to seek shade beneath them.

  We are nearing the Stone Shore. Though I have not been there in my wanderings, I have asked my ancestors about it, and they have shown me some of what I see now. Grass fading into rock, the oddly menacing trees, and the slightest tilt of the land that makes my legs burn, bringing a dull ache in the morning. Even Kakis shows stiffness when she wakes, and I hear creaks from her old bones as she goes about her morning stretch, each claw extended, every tooth exposed.

  Though I told the Indiri who were given to the earth at Dunkai what my aims are, I have not thought on how to accomplish them. In truth, I left Stille only to see it behind me, with a half vision of finding the Lithos of Pietra and ending his days. Yet now I question how an Indiri will come near the Stone Shore without notice, my speckled skin marking me. Behind me, I hear Kakis let loose a massive sneeze.

  An Indiri trailing a tame Tangata, no less.

  “Depths, cat,” I say to her. “Have you no head for stealth?”

  She pauses to clean her paws, which is as good an answer as any, for there are still oderbird feathers nestled there. Kakis pulled one from its nest yesterday, the bird knowing nothing before his world changed from blue sky to the inside of a Tangata’s mouth.

  I sit for a moment myself, cautiously leaning back against one of the Pietran trees to check the fletching of my arrows. Kakis’s meal was only half finished when I found her, and my newly made arrows sport fine feathers, though I question how true they will fly, since I made them by firelight.

  “You aren’t such a terrible companion,” I tell her, running a finger over the black and white tips. Kakis doesn’t answer, and when I look up, she is as still as the stone these shores are named for, one leg still stretched high to clean, toes spread apart. But her eyes are pinned above my shoulder, a deep growl beginning in her throat.

  I unhook my bow from my shoulder and peek around the edge of the tree, but I don’t need eyes to know what’s coming. The smell hits me as the breeze changes, a scent I’ve come across only once before and am not anxious to experience again.

  It’s a Lusca, a monster of the sea come to hunt on land. Webbed feet better made for the surf leave odd tracks in its wake, scales casting colors in the light, first green that fades to blue, then a weak shade of purple. It may look soft as a fish belly, but these creatures have curved claws that leave anything living well hooked, once caught, and teeth that are best avoided entirely, as there are no second chances.

  I slide back behind the tree, and my eyes meet Kakis’s. The cat is no fool. Crouching, she makes her way to me, ruff raised, low growl still simmering. I jab upward with my bow. She doesn’t hesitate, leaping onto the lowest limbs so lightly that the tree barely shudders. Kakis passes into the shadows above, leaving me to wait.

  I nock an arrow and slip to the side.

  The Lusca has paused, tiny eyes meant for water and darkness swiveling to and fro in its massive skull. It does not belong here, and yet it is a predator still, and one I dare not underestimate. I slide back out of sight, pressed against the tree, bow to my chest, thinking.

  Donil and I hunted one as a favor to the Hyllenians whose herds it had torn into, Vincent’s grandfather, Gammal, asking us to settle the nerves of Stille’s frightened shepherds. Its path had been littered not only with the leavings of sheep it had fed on, but the bodies of Tangata—many and more—who had challenged it. I took down that beast with one arrow while Donil slept beside me. We took its head and two feet to Gammal to prove our kill, barely able to see each other over the humped back of the dead animal as we cut away the pieces . . . and this one is larger.

  I take aim, but hope it will pass me by.

  What I saw in a glance showed me muscle and claw attuned to each other, and I fear that my earlier kill was heavy and slow after much feasting, whereas this creature has an air of hunger. It may not see well in the sun, but a chuff of air tells me I’ve been scented. Above, I hear Kakis settling onto a branch. I imagine her preparing to pounce, balanced on lean haunches. Behind, there is a slow, ponderous footfall, heavy as a boulder falling to the sea. Followed by another.

  I let out a breath of air, spin into the open, and take my shot.

  As always when I fire an arrow, I know the moment I release what path it will take, and this one has not found its mark. The tip buries into the fleshy thigh of the Lusca, who bellows with pain. It turns not to the injury, but what caused it.

  The beast I killed before fell with one shot, and so I do not know how to face this enemy. All I can say in truth is that I have angered it, though I am nocking another arrow even as it charges for me, the very ground beneath my feet shivering at its footfall.

  “Tides,” I yell, knowing the moment I release it that this one has gone wide, burrowing into the bulge of its shoulder but causing no more damage than a pinprick. And though a pin cannot hurt deeply, it can hurt badly.

  The Lusca grinds to a halt in front of me as I draw my sword, raging at me and the new flare of pain. It bellows, mouth open wide, mere handspans from my face, and I am hit with the stench of the deep: wet and rot, foul and dark things that have no place walking on earth as I do.

  I rage back at it, yelling my own wordless cry as I swipe behind an ear, the back of a knee. My blade is keen, but it comes away not with blood, but scales, a slick armor with no chinks. I take jabs and do nothing more than litter the ground with scales. I’ve spun to its backside, and the spiked tail swings for me. I hit the ground, rolling underneath it, but come up to catch a charge directly in the side, the Lusca’s skull making short work of my ribs.

  I know pain almost as well as hate. Every scar I carry has a story, and each one is remembered well, so that when the burn of blade or crush of rock comes again, I will bow under it, but not break, having survived it once before. But this agony is new to me, the feel of my chest caving into itself, the air I gasp for not filling me but burning a path deep inside.

  I still clutch my blade and turn in time to parry another swipe from the tail. I take off the tip, and an arc of blood sprays across us both. I wipe my face clean with my blade arm, the other wrapped tightly around my chest. I desperately wish to draw my second blade, fight the beast from the lee and the stoneward as I prefer, but my bones feel like small stones where the Lusca hit me, and I fear that if I pull my hand away, they will scatter to the ground, my skin following in a puddle.

  The beast is more wary now that I’ve taken some of its tail and put two arrows in its hide. We circle each other, its massive head nodding back and forth as it tries to trick me into feinting, stubbed tail whipping in and out of my vision. We’ve turned a half circle, and the Lusca’s back is to the tree when I see the leaves parting above it.

  Kakis lunges, claws stretched, eyes wide for the kill. But I see them change midpounce, slipping from the tight focus of a hunter to a questioning gleam. Leaves explode around her as she clears the canopy, but tufts of Tangata fur fly on the wind as well, and dark drops of her blood.

  The cat hits the Lusca’s back, but in midroll, her balance thrown. She slips off the scales, grabbing purchase with one arm only, her hindquarters dragging in the dirt as the Lusca spins, trying to dislodge her. Lusca and Tangata blood mix so that the air is heavy with wildness, the dark musk of fear and the nearness of death coming close behind.

  I do the only thing I can think of. I drop my blade and run for the tree.

  My bones grind against each other like glass as I say the words, hands tight on its trunk, drawing the life of it inside me. When I open a living thing with my words, I open myself too, become a gaping mouth into which power flows, and I draw until I can hold no more, every part of my skin and the unlit depths of me bursting with strength.

  It is not to be taken lightly, and I open myself now, knowing I’m a filthy, witless fool
to drain this tree to save a Tangata. I open myself angry that the last female Indiri may die beneath a tree she can’t name, killed by a beast from a distant sea. I open myself thinking of the first time I did so, to save Donil and Vincent—to the depths with Stille.

  I open myself and take, to find that it is not life I draw from this tree, but death.

  It flows into me like a river, every crevice of my body coated in the blood of others, long congealed, dark and black. Roots do not untangle at my feet but instead burst with blood, turning the dirt around me to mud, sending the leaves shuddering from where they rest and falling around me like blades.

  Kakis flees as far as she can, a steady trail of blood following her. But the Lusca makes the mistake of turning to look as I pull free of the trunk, now withered and dying. It cracks cleanly and falls, each leaf slicing through the Lusca and every branch crushing what the leaves do not tear. The beast heaves upward once, the remains of the tree shuddering along with it, a mix of old and new blood spreading in a pool.

  Then it is still.

  It is still, and I am dying. Everything I have inside of me is filth, drenched in whatever this tree held dear, all of it meant for darkness. I fall to my hands and knees to retch. Old blood and not my own comes pouring out of me, from my mouth and nose, eyes and ears. I would push all there is inside of me outward to be free of it. My gut flattens and I am sick again, the push of uncountable arrows in my veins as death tries to leave me by any means.

  Kakis crawls to me, her own blood fresh and new, fur hanging in strips from her side where the strange leaves skinned her as she jumped. She pushes her head against mine in question, rough tongue trying to clean me of the mess.

  “No,” I say, not wanting her to foul herself with whatever I have pulled from the tree. It burns through me, my broken side a whisper in comparison. I cannot even find words, Indiri or otherwise, as Kakis takes my cloak in her mouth and pulls me like a kitten, clear of my own mess and the death we dealt out together.