by Kari Cordis
“I didn’t think Rach ever left the Sheel...” Sable, listening raptly to all this, had to cut in. How galling would that be if Kyr were to succeed at establishing relations with the Ram from hundreds of leagues away where the Empire had failed to even spot their shadow right there on their own doorstep.
“No. It wasn’t a happy Rach, believe me. But,” Kore continued, “it’s like he’s obsessed with destroying the Tarq…not just fighting them like Rach are usually content with. He’s set the entire Red Watch to training dawn eagles, which can be taught to track prey. All they’ve done is fly out to the middle of the Sheel and circle around aimlessly, but still, no one’s ever thought of that before. Kyr’s led as much as a rill out himself, for weeks at a time, searching, searching…he’s always searching.”
In a way, she thought later, laying in the dark with a breeze that was almost cold chilling her overheated skin, it was a relief. This totally explained her fascination with Kyr—he was handsome and charming, of course, like most Rach, but he also had these very admirable, Northern-like qualities. He was driven, open-minded, bold, a Rach ahead of his time. So, she could relate to him. That’s what it was—she was relating.
Searing days that blistered with heat passed in a steady march into star-spangled nights that needed a blanket for comfort. The little mounds of drifted sand grew steadily, seeming to devour the gravelly grey ground until it was as if the whole world was composed of dunes of fine, soft, orange sand; one endless toil uphill and stilting plunge down the other side, repeated a hundred times a day. The horses never faltered, the Rach never wavered or slowed. She began to see the necessity of the agile Aerachs. Rorig’s big warhorse grew more and more weary with the sun and sand until the Queensknight angrily had to accept the offer of a loan just to keep up with her mare. The other two Northerners had done so long ago—Evara, her maid, who had primly withstood the charms of the Rach for almost 36 hours, and Lt. Waylan, Androssan’s military attaché. He’d (happily—what cavalry officer wouldn’t grab at the reins of a full-blooded Aerach if offered?) left his army-issue gelding back at Crossing, donned the fitted leather pants and loose, white cotton blouse of the Aerach warrior, and was quite cheerfully bareback, freckled, and sunburnt.
When the fickle Idon flowed to the surface again, it was in the oasis they called the Don Eshaid. There had been so many mirages at this point in Sable’s life that it was a little surprising to have this one turn into the real paradise promised by the ripples of heat. Palm trees, the greenest, most peaceful, beautiful tree she’d ever seen, at last gave definition to the horizon. Water, real, flowing water, just like she remembered, lay tranquilly in among the groves of green, giving life to rushes, bird and animal life, date and fig palms. She couldn’t remember ever tasting anything so sweet as that water, couldn’t remember when plant life was so welcome. Peace flowed over her as she bathed in a secluded pool that night, the big fan palms breathlessly exotic against the brilliant spectacle of the sunset, the strange cries of ibis and water dove a soothing symphony over the background of frog and insect life. She’d never been so aware, so thankful of life before.
Rorig, standing guard as she and Evara bathed, turned to her as they emerged from their heavenly bath. It was still so hot that Sable could feel her clothes drying against her soaking wet skin even a few yards away from the water, and she was so limp with pleasure that she had to force herself to focus on him. It was made easier by the now acrid odor of his person as he leaned close to hiss in scandalized tones, “Beware, Majesty—there are Rach bathing everywhere. Nude!”
“How unusual,” she murmured soggily, brushing past him. He was approaching the ludicrous. “You have my permission to bathe,” she suggested, dimly tactful.
“I would not leave you to indulge myself in such a sensuous pleasure,” he denied heatedly.
“I insist,” she murmured equably.
She sank without much evidence of a vertebra into the pile of blankets arranged for her at her tent, watching the camp activity from under heavy lids while Evara brushed through her hair. Even Rach at rest aren’t particularly still, however, and pretty soon energetic splashing and serious-sounding activity intruded into her half coma. The camp lay spread out throughout the palm grove, including its various pools, and one of these had held what looked like a crocodile. It was hard to tell, as the group of women came hauling it in around her fire—it was a little mangled.
Sable sat up with a start as they deposited it nearby, happily and unapologetically pulling out the long, wicked cooking knives they all wore at their waists.
“What happened?” she asked Taneh, who glanced over at her and grinned.
“It attacked,” Kore’s wife said calmly, commencing to butcher and chat with disconcerting harmony. “Seara had to kill it…it can be delicious if grilled right,” she assured her, misconstruing the frozen look on her face.
Sable swallowed. The creature had to be almost two yards long, but none of the women were particularly excited. None had gone running to the men, whom she assumed were still bathing since there wasn’t a sign of them. She watched them for several minutes, a number of Northern-Aerach cultural disparities coming prominently to mind. “Were there more?” she finally asked faintly.
“Oh, they’re all over the oasis,” one of the women assured her, as if to assuage concerns that perhaps just the one wouldn’t feed everyone.
The Northern military attaché came up just then, bleached hair dripping, and stopped to look wide-eyed at dinner. He glanced quickly at Sable and she said, “Perhaps we should warn Rorig.”
He took his freckled self off to save the Queensknight, while it occurred to Sable that the danger was probably minimal—knowing Rorig, he probably bathed with his sword.
When a silence fell among the women gathered at their catch, Sable ventured admiringly, “It seems amazing to me that women are not in positions of power among the Rach. You obviously fear nothing.”
One of them rolled her eyes. “You’ll send the menfolk grey with that kind of talk.” Everyone smiled, but not unkindly.
“They’re strivers, our men,” another of them said, “striving to fight off the Tarq, striving to protect their families, striving to breed the best horses and raise the happiest families…an endless striving until their short lives end,” she finished wryly, and several of them shook their heads. No one was smiling now.
“We are Illians,” Taneh said, which Sable thought wasn’t relevant to the conversation at all. But to be polite, when the silence stretched she asked reluctantly, “What do you mean?”
“Men and women are equal in His eyes. But not the same. We strive for different things.”
“We’re both guided by Him,” the sardonic one said, and her face seemed suddenly to line with sorrow, “they die for Him.” Sable blinked. Taneh’s strong, quiet eyes met hers across the small cookfire.
“They will speak of Il as men do,” she said softly. “Of His might and will and honor and strength. But we know the truth. That He is the God of endless comfort, the God of more-than-death, the God of life-goes-on.”
Sable sat and watched silently, then, looking on women who did not giggle or banter or chatter foolishly. They worked quietly and deftly and their words were of those that had long moved on from childhood.
That oasis could’ve lasted forever and she would have been quite happy. Unfortunately, it took far less than a day to traverse paradise, and by around noon, prime-boil, they were leaving the last of the fronds and frogs behind. Facing the burning glare of orange waste in front of them, though, Sable felt like a different person. How much for granted she’d taken things like water, food…living beings.
They were a pretty disreputable bunch by the time they reached the Ramparts. It was a good two weeks’ ride down, the home of the Rach closer to Crossing than any other Realm capital simply because the Rach were the most steadily and consistently besieged with Enemy and refused to be long or far away from their defenses. Aerach parties regularly made the
trip in a week and a half, and their group wasn’t far off from that. Still, it had been almost a week since any bathing had taken place, last occurrence at the oasis, and Sable felt begrimed to her toes.
But when they crossed that last low ridge of dunes, and the Ramparts were suddenly there, spreading out beyond sight to the east and west, and the great, flat, shimmering Sheel beyond them soared out and away to the horizon, everything else left her mind. It was the biggest land she’d ever seen. Even the low sand dunes were gone from the horizon and it was just one huge, empty, glowing, orange desert until the curve of the earth hid it from view.
She didn’t know why she’d always pictured the Ramparts as black—probably because word-of-mouth had them as so imposing—but they were of the same salmon-colored sand as everything else in the vicinity. Just massive. Kaskari had done one whale of a job. The Hilt, home of the Rach himself, the Rachar, and she assumed any visiting dignitaries (probably infrequent), jutted out toward them from the flat, uninterrupted face of the defensive wall.
They’d apparently been spotted, because people were starting to pour out of the Hilt and the long stream of tents that lay on the northern side of the wall. They congregated into little pools, hands raised to shield their eyes as they looked toward the bedraggled group shuffling down the last sand hill. One single warrior separated from the rest as they drew closer, striding boldly to meet them. By the time she’d recognized who it was, Kore was announcing in a terrific bellow that they probably heard back in Crossing:
“RACH KYR!”
Instantly, sound and motion seemed to freeze. Every single Rach dismounted so quickly and smoothly that if Kore hadn’t been right next to her she probably wouldn’t have been aware of it. The humans bowed their heads, taking a knee, a shushura of whispered commands by the warriors bending their horses’ heads, as well, over suddenly outthrust forelegs. Three weeks ago, Sable would have found this almost laughable sentimental posturing, but now it seemed deeply stirring…that all that mass of dynamic, joyful, noisy life could become so suddenly and completely still.
And all for that one man, striding long-legged and powerful towards them, buckskins fading into the background, brown neck rising out of the billowing blouse…and looking at no one but her.
She swallowed, throat drier than thirst had ever made it, and thought rather erratically that she was a thick-headed dolt…to mistake this feeling for anything other than what it was.
He never faltered until he reached the side of her little mare, looking up into her face like he’d been lost for three nights and four days in the Sheel in the rainy season and she was the white gazelle.
She didn’t seem able to move, her heart wedged into her dry throat, not a single intelligent thought in her Royal head, just…gazing at him. Reaching up, he put his hands on her hips and placed her without any discernible effort in front of him. Where they could stare at each other in close quarters with growing smiles.
“Welcome to the Ramparts,” he said huskily.
Then he turned, raising up Kore and chesting him with rough affection, and the babble began again in the whirling, spirited spectacle of Aerach life. Kyr swung his Shagreen’s little daughter up on one broad shoulder and, walking companionably next to Sable, led the whole procession into the crowd a short distance away.
There was quite a bit of cheering going on, conducted with so much genuine delight that Sable found herself smiling much more sincerely than she ever had for Northern crowds. The Rach beamed at her, their little ones darting out to sprinkle what smelled suspiciously like perfume in her path (was that a hint?), and their ubiquitous pack of dogs panting happily in barkless good temperament. A rush of honest affection for these honest people came over her—Kyr would not have received a welcome of such unpretentious warmth in the North.
He stopped them all at the entrance to the Hilt, in the shade of amazingly intricate arches towering overhead, and turned to address the eager crowd. As if perhaps he had something to say that they couldn’t have already gathered, Sable thought wryly, looking at all the expectant faces.
“Great is the honor visited upon the Rach this day!” he cried. “Across the wastes, scorning danger, scorning trial and hardship has come the Magnificent Northern Queen!” Cheers drowned him out and Sable blushed to the roots of her sandy hair, fighting the urge to smooth it or straighten her dress or something. Magnificent?
“As Il has moved her heart and protected her on her long journey, so we move this day to welcome her, to honor her, to lay all that we have before her!” He stepped away from her, presenting her with a flourish of one well-muscled brown arm. “Queen Sable!”
There was a tremendous amount of noise for the modest size of the crowd. A faint longing for the formal restraint of Northern ceremony crossed her mind, but there was nothing for it but to smile graciously and hope he wasn’t long-winded.
“From this day on, she will be remembered as Sable the Fair, for fair is her face and form, fair her will and determination, and fair her courage!”
Oh, no. She had no doubt that was not mere grandiloquence. A hundred years from now the next luckless Imperial visitor would be regaled with hopelessly exaggerated tales of the passage of Sable the Fair. What next?
She hadn’t long to wait on that account. Gesturing inconspicuously off to the side, he continued grandly, “Long and well we will feast in the Queen’s honor, but for now let us welcome her in our own way…”
The crowd parted. Kore’s son Kenai came walking through, leading a little mare so glowing, so exquisite, one hardly could categorize her as a horse. Sable had the unfamiliar sensation of her throat closing as a rush of emotion seized her. And not because the creature was almost priceless in the North, either…but because it meant so much to the Rach. It was like a living, breathing piece of themselves, a horse.
Partly out of awe and partly because she didn’t trust herself to speak, she walked slowly and deliberately around the mare, making a show of looking her over. You can’t just say thanks and take hold of the bridle when a Rach presents you with a horse, anyway, so it was a good use of time. The mare was without any blemish that she could find, which didn’t surprise her, and so light a shade of chestnut that she gleamed like gold in the sun. Barely more than a filly, so that she would have her for years, she was bright and delicate and ineffably beautiful.
“It is customary to say her name,” Kyr murmured to her when she circled back around to the horse’s chiseled head. He looked inordinately proud of himself.
“What is it?” Sable asked in surprise, amazed she’d been so overcome she’d missed it. Too much time in the sun.
His eyes flew wide in suppressed mirth, like she’d just trotted out something hilarious, and Kenai whispered helpfully, “You have to name her, Lady Queen.”
“Do you need help?” Kyr whispered, now serious—no doubt this was a grave matter to a Rach—as she first blushed then stood there, tongue-tied. The crowd waited, absolutely silent down to the last well-behaved hound and toddler, waiting for a name to occur to her. She tore her eyes from his, which definitely weren’t helping her concentrate, and focused on her gift…the elegance of the slim legs, the high arch in the perfectly formed neck, the silken flow of golden mane and tail. She was like a piece of art.
“Filigree,” she announced. She was expecting cheers and approbation, but not the shocked exclamations of delight, the clapped hands to wide mouths, the little cries and gasps that preceded the wide grins. She looked around, wondering. Even Kyr’s face showed surprise, though he hid it quickly with that irrepressible good-humor.
“What?” she asked out of the side of her mouth.
“It’s a good name,” he said, unhelpfully, taking her arm and heading into the Hilt.
“Is it…significant?”
He seemed to be chewing on a smile. “Filigree was the beloved mare of Rach Kyle’s mate.”
The banquet, to Sable’s surprise, was set for the next day. Somehow, she’d expected the Rach to be th
e type that would want to appear strong and unaffected by such measly trials as traversing the desert for weeks on end. She was unequivocally grateful for the chance to rest and the luxury of a bath…but as she sat looking over the Sheel from her rooms high up in the Hilt that night, she was shocked at the loneliness. For weeks her nights had been filled with laughter and song, jokes and stories, the lilting, pounding, toe-tapping dances and the living, vibrating hum of human energy…right up until the moment she lay down and closed her eyes. In her mind, that long and toilsome trek through empty lands and debilitating heat had been a rite of passage of sorts. They had lived through something, her and her Rach, and she missed them.
She had sent Evara next door to her own room, not wanting Northern company, but she looked up eagerly when a Rach girl knocked and entered to attend her.
“Do you need anything, Lady Queen?” the young girl asked. Like all the teenage girls she’d come to know over the past days, she was slender and graceful and deft as she moved around the room, her long black hair hanging loose to her waist. She was probably twelve or thirteen, too young to be married—just. They didn’t dally about that sort of thing among the Rach.
“No, thank-you.” Just for conversation, she added, “The sand must get over everything down here, living so close to the Sheel.”
“Sheeldust, we call it, and it does,” she answered, prompt and unaffected. She gave Sable a smile, as shockingly free of sycophancy as all of them, and Sable sighed and smiled back.
“What’s your name?” she asked her.
“Krysta. Kore is my brother—you came down with him.”
Sable looked at her searchingly. “The Royal Line. And you’re serving as a maid?” High-ranking ladies like Cerise attended her in Archemounte, but you wouldn’t catch one of them turning down a bed.
