by Kari Cordis
“‘Tip!” they cried in warning, “Flying!”
Instantly, Kore touched his heels to his stallion, and no sooner was the space next to her vacated of his presence than a half dozen now-quiet warriors fell in around her, completely encapsulating her in Rach. Rorig was left abruptly on the periphery, dropping several notches in dignity as he tried to force his way back to his Queen’s side. Sable wasn’t even aware of him, she was so curious about the sudden wary focus among the warriors, though by no stretch of the imagination could you call them nervous. The look on their bronzed faces was more akin to boys focused on the berry tart stand at the fair than it was soldiers expecting imminent danger.
Sable calmly let the time play out, not even bothering to ask what was going on—military jargon in the North was unintelligible enough. She couldn’t even imagine trying to make sense of what she was likely to hear from the Rach. Men loved their games.
The dust cloud that held the Shagreen came to a stop and dissolved into recognizable forms not too far ahead. She could see clearly now that there was someone coming from the opposite direction, and there were a few scant seconds of inactivity when he pulled up on meeting Kore.
To her surprise, there followed sudden and violent action—the incoming rider was yanked off his mount and thrown to the ground. Her eyes widened as one of Kore’s men began lashing at the prone figure as if he held a whip, though she couldn’t see that from where she was. In contrast to her alarm, the Rach around her relaxed into talk, some chuckling and shaking their heads, some calling out what was absolute gibberish to Sable’s ears back to their comrades. None of them seemed overly troubled by the unexplained flogging going on a couple hundred yards to their front.
By the time the troupe grew close enough to really see what was going on, it was over. The person on the ground was rising gingerly to his feet, a whip being grimly coiled up by one of the nearby men. He stiffly remounted his lathered horse, his face very dirty, and as he turned and headed back the way he’d come, she was appalled to see his bare back laced with thin red ribbons where the lash had drawn blood. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve.
When Kore headed back to join them, Sable almost didn’t recognize him. If it weren’t for his worn buckskins and the fact he was mounted, he could have been a Dra, so set and implacable was his face. It softened as he met her eyes, swinging the black in next to her mare. She must not have been completely composed, because he said, “Don’t be distressed, Lady Queen, it was of no matter. A Wingtip, bringing a routine message.”
“He was beaten…?” she said in a carefully neutral tone.
The Shagreen’s eyebrows gathered blackly. “It is a grave infraction for a ‘Tip to run a horse like that for no reason. Much depends on them in battle; they must know the importance of garnering their horse’s strength.”
Rorig, who’d finally muscled his way back to Sable after his most recent and deeply felt humiliation, was apparently done with his silent protector role. “We are obviously NOT in the middle of a battle, your undisciplined men race all over the plain, and he was flayed ‘til he bled. Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?” he said accusingly.
“No,” Kore said, facing him contentiously. “Hundreds of men depend on that boy’s judgment; it can take a ‘Tip days to run a message down the length of a Wing, and if he can’t get it to the right men by the right time, it could mean thousands of deaths, the success of the whole mission, the integrity of the Ramparts—even the safety of the Empire itself. I should have made him walk back and pulled him from the Wings.”
“I’m sure he would have preferred it,” Rorig muttered snappishly.
Kore gave him an even look. “A dismounted Rach is a dishonored Rach.”
Sable pondered all this for quite a while. She wasn’t even particularly comfortable with Northern military justice—though obviously she understood the necessity for discipline—and she was pretty sure they did nothing so brutal as what she’d just witnessed. But what was most irreconcilable was the reflexive harshness, the quick jump to corporal punishment from men so utterly amiable and open and jocular in their day-to-day lives…what sort of people were these?
That night, they settled into the gentle curves of the Shimmering Downs. Unlike the flat iron of the plains, up here the sunset brought marked relief, though they’d left the Idon and the chance to wash down there, too. You got used to the reek, she found. Especially if you were contributing.
There was casual talk about the fate of the messenger that night around the fire—all of it universally unsympathetic. Sable, feeling like she was a detective hunting out clues about this baffling society, was listening closely and so happened to hear one of the warriors make an idle comment about the ‘sign of the Empress.’ Mind immediately on a whole different track, she hurriedly swallowed the bit of succulent steak impeding her and asked sharply, “There’s news of the Statue?”
Most of the Rach looked at her curiously, as if she was neighing instead of speaking, but Kore’s face flashed a white smile in the dim firelight. “The Empress hasn’t always been a Statue,” he chuckled. He looked at her thoughtfully, then his eyes shifted beyond her.
“Noska!” he cried extravagantly, flashing a sly grin at her at the same time. “A tale! A tale of our human Empress!”
He came over to their fire, this Noska, and it was like a beacon had flashed out over the whole camp. An immediate whispering of boots and whushing of moving bodies seemed to come in a rush all around their campfire. Mothers with little ones in their laps appeared out of nowhere, warriors lounged themselves into piles of brown muscles and leathers. The Northerners drew back a little, heads swiveling at the great press of bodies, and, actually, a little at Noska himself. At some point in his life, his face had met up with a blade, and not to his beautification. In the North, anyone that disfigured would have been far from society, perhaps on a quiet farm—and if he hadn’t the self-respect to do it himself, his friends would’ve made sure of it for him.
Sable assumed it was steelscore, the jagged, grotesque scar through his empty eye socket, but it didn’t seem to be the least disturbing to the Rach. No one winced or politely averted their eyes, and even the small children gathered close around him with delighted, upturned faces. A wet nose thrust itself into Sable’s hand and without even having to look she began stroking Shika’s velvety head. Kore gave her a brilliant grin, proud of himself, leaning back comfortably so that his flat belly rippled in the firelight. His wife Taneh settled in companionably, close to the crook of his arm and body.
Rorig bristled like a pine tree at the shameless exhibition of bare skin, but she shushed him with a glance, focusing on the storyteller like he held the secret of immortality and hoping the Queensknight would get the hint. There was just no use comparing the two cultures…too much disparity, too much antipathy (at least on Rorig’s part), was between them. She sighed contentedly. It was rough, this ambassadorial work, but she’d keep at it.
Noska, with the flair of his trade, stood absolutely and theatrically motionless. Not a word passed his slightly twisted lips until there wasn’t a whisper of sound from his audience, until the stillness of the camp matched the stillness of the night, until it seemed the whole universe was holding its breath. And then he began, in a great, rich, rolling voice you’d never suspect could come out of that disfigured face or that lean chest:
“When Rach Kyle came first to these great sands, forgotten by the gods, at the head of a fierce and mighty host, fighting for every yard of ground, he took a mate from among the dusky daughters of his companions. From her he begot eighteen sons.”
Sable choked on her water. The Rach warriors half rose to their feet, cheering lustily.
“But from all his sons born brave and true, ‘twas the last he thought most fit to rule. His name was Kileen, and he begot nine sons.”
For several seconds of genealogy, Sable was held spellbound; this was the legendary ‘oral tradition’ that one learned about at Uni
versity. For the next several seconds after that, as names of sons and sons of sons and sons of their sons rolled seamlessly off Noska’s skilled tongue, she was further amazed that it could go on so long. Shamed as she was to admit it, because, really, it was an impressive list to commit to memory, after several minutes of faceless names had filled the air…her attention began to drift. Idly, she began to surreptitiously study the intent faces around her. Virility flowed off the Rach in waves, faces all bronze planes and flashing eyes, bodies sleek and supple. But for all the striking good looks and radiating energy of the men, the women were completely different. In their faces, the sharp angles smoothed to soft ovals graced with a haunting, ethereal beauty. Their eyes were dark pools of mystery, manner deft and reserved—calm, steady rocks to the warriors’ dashing waves. She’d seen the few unmarried Rach men, usually little more than teenagers, watching the girls so breathlessly, so intently, they’d stop mid-sentence to follow them with their eyes. The girls were slender and graceful as willows, going about their prosaic tasks like princesses, completely impervious to the flattering stares.
There was a pause and Sable glanced back to the storyteller. Could the Rach finally be done begetting?
“And then,” Noska said in a low and important voice, “the line was broken, forever. By one humble stonemason who could not even ride. This is his story.”
Anticipation built like a summer storm as Noska let the silence drag.
“His name was Kaskari and he was a builder, making docks on the Eastern Sea and whatever few buildings the Rach required. One night, helping to repel an attack, he chased the Tarq far into the Sheel and became separated from his companions. When the steel had grown silent, he found himself alone—and in the middle of the rainy season in the endless Sheel. For four days and three nights he wandered under a cloudy sky, seeing neither sun nor stars, lost, helpless, and despairing.”
“It was on the fourth night that he could go no farther. Sinking to the sand, his body but a dry husk, his mind fading away, he resigned himself to never wake again.”
“But there was a different plan for Kaskari and a purpose for him yet. He was woken. By a touch on his brow cool as the sea at dawn. He woke refreshed, water once again pumping through his body, and looked with amazement on his rescuer. It was a woman, dressed as in starlight, with black hair that swung to her ankles and eyes as bright as pools in moonlight.”
Sable raised a quiet eyebrow. Sounded like a man lost in the desert, all right.
“Fair lady,’ croaked Kaskari, for his voice was still rough and dry, ‘who art thou? Thou hast surely pulled me from the very jaws of death.”
“My name matters little,’ she said in a voice soft and soothing as an oasis breeze, ‘for I am many things to many people. What is of true import is that you come to know Il and take His strength for your own, that you might have life.”
Sable felt like she’d been slapped in the face. Il? Here? What was this sudden over-abundance of Illianism, when she’d barely been aware of its existence the past twenty-two years of her life?
“Who is he, that I might know him?’ Kaskari asked, confused.”
“He is the great God, the God of power and love and justice and compassion, and He wishes all men to know His Peace.”
“Kaskari shook his head, even more confused. ‘The gods have forsaken the Rach. We are outcast and alone.”
“No more,’ said his mysterious rescuer. ‘Il desires you to be His people—not because you are worthy, but because you are His. His honor will be your honor, His strength your strength, and His mercy your mercy. He is all that is good and strong and right and true, and He would have you as His own.”
“And Kaskari felt suddenly a great longing swell up in him for such a god, for him and for his people, and he cried out, ‘Tell me how we can have this great thing, for long have my people been desolate and without joy in this harsh new land!”
“You are a generous man, to think of your people while you lay almost dying, far from home in the trackless Sheel. Come with me now, my friend, and we will return to your Rach and I will tell you many things.”
Sable shifted uncomfortably. Northerners never moralized in their stories—it irritated the audience. Besides, this was reminding her of things Elger the Shepherd had told her that she’d thought she was done thinking about.
“And then into Kaskari’s view stepped a pure white horse, mane and tail like a silver comet against the night sky, and he knew her for who she was. For who but the Empress wandered alone and without fear through the Realms, ministering to those in desperate need and accompanied only by her great white horse, Spirit?”
Who was obviously a regional addition. Sable had never heard a single tale that had the Empress on the back of a horse of any color…but then, of what interest would a heroine without a horse be to a Rach?
“In great awe Kaskari clung to the back of the white stallion, for he had been crippled from birth. Never had he been able to move with more than a shambling walk or run, nor to sit astride even the smoothest of mounts. But his delight in being able to ride was but a dim glow compared to the wondrous words of the Empress. All that night and through the next they rode, taking neither food nor drink, while she told him of the awesome mystery of her God. And when the sun rose on the morning of the second day, Kaskari saw with astonishment that the Empress had brought him not back to his humble origins by the sea, but far to the west, where the great camp of the Rach himself lay like a vast cloud upon the edge of the Sheel.”
“Already, as he watched, he saw a patrol racing across the sands to intercept them. Anxious for her safety, he attempted to dismount, to run ahead and warn them not to harm her, but calmly she prevented him, and calmly Spirit walked on, and calmly she awaited them. And indeed, as they rode up, they came to a startled halt at sight of her.”
“We have been lost in the desert,’ Kaskari hastened to explain. ‘The Empress has found me and saved me from certain death!’ But it was as if he had never spoken, for the scouts had eyes only for the Empress.”
“We wish to see the Rach,’ she said in her velvet strong voice, and immediately the riders turned and escorted them back to the camp. And then Kaskari truly began to tremble, for he was a poor and humble builder who knew nothing of the fierce, fine ways of the Rach, and he dreaded a meeting with so mighty a man.”
“The Rachar were Standing, and the Rach with them, that very morning, and when word was sent in to them of Kaskari and his fair rescuer, immediately they two were summoned. With heavy heart Kaskari walked beside the Empress, feeling much out of place with his tattered clothes and unmanly gait—especially surrounded as he was by such strength and agility and quickness to action as the men of the Rach displayed; he made for a poor companion.”
“But as with the patrol, few eyes noticed poor Kaskari. The brightness of the Empress held the Rachar as if under enchantment, for she was in raiment as starlight, and her black hair swung round her ankles, and her eyes were as moonlit pools, and none could question her for the wonder she evoked.”
“But she spoke of her own accord, and this is what she said:”
“Greetings, Rach Killayon, and to your Rachar. I bring to you this morning great word, of a God who would make you His own, of a plan to make your path sure, and of a man to help you with both.”
“This is Kaskari,’ she said, ‘who can build you a wall that will stop your dread foe and more surely make your strength of benefit to the Realms. And the God is Il, who will build of you a great people, for He is the only God bigger than your great hearts. He alone will not run from your bold courage, calling it intemperance and foolhardy, but will light your path with true valor, great fortitude, honor, and justice. He calls you to be greater than you are, by serving each other with humility and Himself with reverence and love. For so He loves you, fiercely, to come to the farthest reaches of the Realms, to call you to be His people.”
“In silence and awe the Rachar pondered this, for her words rang with
power and were strong and pure. But of Kaskari and the wall there was only puzzlement.”
“We would know more,’ Rach Killayon finally spoke. ‘Both of this Il, and of this strange wall of which you speak. Why have we not heard before of Il, and why would we build a wall to stand in one place while we move around like water in a stream, fighting the foul Tarq wherever we find him?”
Sable blinked. This was before the Ramparts? That was thousands of years ago. This was a lot of detail for a centuries-old story, and a lot of breathless interest in archaic speech by young people who by all rights should be more interested in flirting.
“The Empress answered in her sure voice, ‘You know Il already, by every longing in your heart for rightness and wisdom, for perfect justice, for true mercy, for elusive honor…He is all these things, and many others besides, and He has sent me, a lone woman of no substance, no family, no home, the least of His servants, to tell you His Name.”
“As for the wall, think ye on how many Tarq escape your patrols, how many breach your great and dedicated host, to eat into the soft belly of the Empire, pillaging and burning and destroying. What if all could be stopped? How much more effective would your defense be if you could spend your energies not in chasing down your foe, but confronting him?”
“And deeply did the Rach and his council listen and deeply did they weigh these words, though had it been another they may well have discounted all…but her visage shone like moonlight through clouds, and her hair swung dark and thick to her ankles, and her eyes spoke more strongly of Truth than even her lips.”
“And so it was that Rach Killayon decided to attempt the wall which the Empress urged. Kaskari was sent back to the sea, for there was the most permanent of the homes of the restless, shifting Rach. The first wall he built, anchored in the sea itself, fell within the very day it was finished. Thoughtfully he pondered this lesson and thoughtfully he reworked his design, borrowing from the metal and minerals of the Merrani they traded with on the lapping lips of the ocean. And great was his joy when the Tarq rolled up against his newest wall and were tossed back like a wave from a rock! Triumphant, the Rach rode forth, wreaking great harm on their stunned enemy. Loudly then was Kaskari praised and with great rejoicing this news was spread.”
