Yet to remain openly upon the face of the Isvai was something the Nalzindar dared not do. Bisochim would count their absence as rebellion, and hunt them down.
Then inspiration came to her—perhaps a true gift of the Gods of the Wild Magic. She knew one place that no one would seek her or her people, for though all the Isvaieni knew its name, none but the Nalzindar believed that it was real.
THEIR TENTS WERE struck within hours, every trace of their presence here erased. That was the job of the youngest children; a child of the Nalzindar barely old enough to walk was still old enough to drag around a brush of desert grass to sweep the sand smooth, to pick up any of the droppings of the shotors that others had overlooked and carry them to the storage baskets. They did not do this only because now they feared pursuit; the Nalzindar had always moved through the world as if they were the wind upon the sand, taking only what they needed to survive and leaving no trace behind. Now this custom would serve them well.
Shaiara had not yet said where she was leading them; not even to Kamar, brother of her father, had she confided their destination. Her people loved her, and trusted her absolutely—in the bare handspan of years since her father’s death, there had been none to dispute that she must guide them in Darak’s place, and her decisions had always been wise ones, good for the Nalzindar—but the way to this refuge would be a harder path than any they had ever walked, and she wished to gather the right words in her mind before she spoke to them of it.
Were this any normal journey from one hunting-ground to the next they would have gone first to Sapthiruk for water. Many turns of the seasons ago, at a Gathering of the tribes, Shaiara had heard a tale that the People of the Great Cold thought their shotors ungainly and ugly, with their slim curved necks, long slender legs, and short round bodies with their thick humps of stored fat. But a shotor was riding beast and pack beast and wool beast and shelter from the Sandwind and sometimes even food; faster than the fastest horse over the shifting sands of the Deep Desert, and once one had drunk its fill, it could go a sennight with ease without drinking again, and longer if food was plentiful. And this was vital, for in the desert, the path between one place and the next was not measured in the straightness as of an arrow’s flight, but was a matter of going where the water was, always, until at last one arrived at the place one sought to be.
But now, Sapthiruk was the last place they could possibly go; they must begin their journey without proper preparations. A sennight’s passage over the sand would see them at Rutharanda Oasis; a difficult trek, but possible.
The tribe traveled through the rest of the day, and through the night as well. In the desert, few creatures were active in the heat of the day; the life of the Nalzindar tents was conducted at dawn and twilight. They were well-used to sleeping through the heat of the day, and doing the work of the camp, including its packing and moving, by night. Such an extended journey was little hardship to them, for the Nalzindar lived by hunting, taking their prey with spear and arrow and sling-stone and the aid of hawk and ikulas-hound. The narrow-headed long-bodied beasts were their greatest ally and tool, wise and clever, and though there was neither mercy nor charity between Sand and Star, many a Nalzindar, in hard times, had given up his or her last drop of water to the four-legged companion who had shared their sleeping mat since puppyhood. Though it would be difficult enough to find water for themselves upon the way they were to walk, no one suggested slaying the ikulas and making the journey without them. The ikulas were Nalzindar, and while hard choices must always be made with open eyes and open hands, only a fool called the future into his tent.
The children of the tribe too young to walk slept as easily slung from a shotor’s pack-saddle as they did on their sleeping-mats in their mother’s tents: in fact, they were far more used to the slings and the saddle, for the Nalzindar never lingered long in one place. Until now, Shaiara thought grimly. Now we must go to ground as if we were the sheshu pursued by the fenec, and pray that this fenec is not wily enough to dig us out of our burrow.
As dawn broke over the sky the little caravan stopped and made the sketchiest of hunter’s camps—only one tent erected to shelter them from the fierce light of the sun, and the shotors were made to kneel in a circle so that their bodies would shield the light of the small cookfires from the eyes of those who passed. Flour, the small sour desert plums, and dried meat were mixed together with water to make the flatcakes that were the Nalzindar’s chief sustenance when the tribe was on the move.
Once the kaffiyeh that signaled the end of the meal had twice been brought to a boil and poured out into small clay cups, the children went off to their sleeping mats and the adults of the tribe gathered silently to hear Shaiara’s words. Though the Nalzindar were a taciturn people, Shaiara knew that this was, as never before, a time for words.
“You know that I have said I believe Bisochim to be Shadow-touched. He gathers the tribes to him. He speaks of armies coming from the Great Cold to enslave us. This is madness, and I will not give my throat—or yours—to the yoke of madness. Time must burn out this fever. Until it does, I take us to where his sickness cannot reach us. To Abi’Abadshar.”
None of the circle of watchers uttered a sound as they absorbed this news, as shocking in its own way as the knowledge that a Wildmage had been Shadow-touched. To most of the Isvaieni the city just-named was no more than an ancient legend; if the desertfolk had believed in ghosts or spirits or things of that nature, they would certainly have believed it was haunted, because those same legends that told of Abi’Abadshar’s existence told that it had been built by creatures of the Endarkened countless thousands of years ago for some unknown purpose. Of all the peoples of the Isvai, only the Nalzindar knew that Abi’Abadshar was both legend—and a place as real and mundane as any of the Iteru-cities.
At last, after many long moments of silence, Kamar drew breath to speak. “The way to Abi’Abadshar is long,” he said.
“It is,” Shaiara agreed.
In truth, she was not absolutely certain how long the way was, for she had never been there, nor had her father, nor his father, back through many generations of the Nalzindar. Once, so long ago that the years could not be easily counted, a hunter of her tribe, driven far from Nalzindar tents by the Sandwind, had wandered many days in the Isvai, barely clinging to life, before he had stumbled upon the bones of the ancient city. There he had remained for a moonturn, recovering his strength, before finding his way back to the tribe. Rausi had brought with him the knowledge that Abi’Abadshar was more than myth, and that the way to it was arid and perilous. The rest of the Nalzindar, being a practical people, had seen no reason to go and see for themselves, but had passed Rausi’s words carefully down through the generations, hoarded against a time of need.
“I tell you truthfully that all who begin the journey may not end it.” Shaiara said nothing more. There was no need to. And when night came again, the shotors were saddled and laden, and the Nalzindar continued their flight.
As the Isvai was to the Madiran, so the Barahileth was to the Isvai: hotter, more arid, and even more devoid of life. Though the Nalzindar knew the location of every oasis in the Isvai, they knew of none within the Barahileth. Not even the Nalzindar dared attempt to explore its fastness—it was madness even to try. Water was life, and no one knew of any source of water within the Barahileth.
Save one.
Rausi had spoken of a deep iteru of sweet water that lay concealed within the ruins that were all that remained of Abi’Abadshar. If they could reach it—if it was still there—the Nalzindar would survive.
Though Abi’Abadshar was only on the outskirts of the Barahileth—had it been any deeper within that region, Rausi could not have survived his journey back to the tents of the Nalzindar so many generations before—it was still a fortnight and no one knew how much more beyond the last water to be found upon the course which led to it. At Kannanatha Iteru, the last true water to be found before they reached (if they did reach) Abi’Abadshar, the Nalz
indar first scouted carefully for enemies—and anyone they saw was now their enemy; they could believe nothing else and be safe—and then filled every waterskin they had. The shotors drank until they could hold no more, but Shaiara knew that would not be enough—if the refuge she sought for her people could be so easily reached, it would have been discovered long ago. On the next leg of their journey, some would die. She accepted that with desert-bred stoicism and set the thought aside.
The Isvaieni kept few books. Every child learned to read and to write and do sums—for in the desert, an accurate count must be kept of many things—but the only book most of the Isvaieni ever saw was the Book of the Light, which contained teaching stories of saints and heroes, and the Nalzindar did not possess even that, for they carried nothing with them on their travels that was not immediately useful. Yet they kept a record of the important events in the life of the tribe, and of the history of all the tribes, woven into songs and stories, and though the Nalzindar were known throughout the Isvai as the Silent People, their store of songs and tales was as large as any other’s. Rausi’s journey and all that he had learned on it had been woven into one such tale. From it, Shaiara had gleaned the knowledge of the direction in which to lead her people, and generations of Nalzindar ancestry told her what must be done to reach their destination alive. To lead the Nalzindar required much more than right of birth: it required the ability to husband the desert’s meager gifts in ways that might seem miraculous to lesser souls. But it would take all that she knew, all that she was, to bring her people to safe haven.
At Kannanatha, Shaiara told her people to abandon all but what they would need to keep them alive and sheltered upon the journey. If Rausi’s song was true, both water and shelter awaited them at the end of their journey. If it was not, then it did not matter, for they would never survive the return trip.
All but one of their tents they cut into pieces, leaving the desert winds to carry the strips of dun shotor-hair cloth where it chose. The wooden tent-poles they broke into pieces, scattering those that they did not use as fuel that day. Sun and scavengers would render the pieces unrecognizable within a moonturn. Shaiara was ruthless in her winnowing of the tribe’s scant possessions—better to destroy more than was necessary here, than to have to abandon it later and leave a trail of detritus that would lead the enemy directly to their hiding place.
Even now it felt wrong to think of her fellow Isvaieni as her enemy, as those her people might have to fight in order to survive. Of course there was conflict between the tribes, even—sometimes—raiding and blood-feuds. But what the Nalzindar faced now was no matter that could be brought before a Council of Elders at the Gathering of the tribes, to be settled there if it was deemed to have gotten out of hand. This was something a thousand times worse: war. And Shaiara wanted no part of it. Better to risk everything on this desperate gamble than to allow her people to fall beneath the influence of the Shadow.
And so, in the hour before sunset, the Nalzindar did all that they could to erase the evidence of their presence from Kannanatha Iteru, and Shaiara led her people into the Barahileth.
They had camped two days at Kannanatha, not only to make themselves and their shotors as water-fat as they could, but so that Shaiara’s hunters and scouts could ride forth a day ahead of the tribe, for this was the last part of her plan to get her people to Abi’Abadshar alive.
Their store of grain and fruit must go to feed the shotors, for the hardy animals were being taken far from their usual forage, and though Shaiara did not think that all the beasts would survive the journey, it was important to keep them alive as long as possible. Without those supplies, the tribe must rely entirely upon what it could catch—and game of any kind would certainly be all-but-nonexistent within the inhospitable furnace of the Barahileth.
A more pressing need even than food was water, and while there were no wells, and certainly no oases, on the path ahead, the desert held more sources of water than these, and Shaiara’s people knew how to find them all.
The hardest part of the journey began.
As they advanced into the Barahileth, Shaiara’s hunters scoured the desert for anything edible in a way that flew in the face of every teaching the Nalzindar held dear, for Shaiara’s people not only kept the Balance, they lived it. There were no sheshu in the Barahileth, for the desert hare made its home in the roots of thornbush and daggerplant, but there were mice, and adders, and scorpions, and all could be eaten if one’s hunger were sharp enough, and one knew the secret of preparing them.
Such an insult to the desert’s balance would take more than one turn of the seasons to repair, but if Sand and Star was kind, the Nalzindar would never pass this way again, and the desert would have time to heal.
They rationed the water from Kannanatha Iteru ruthlessly, eking it out with what their scouts found—sometimes nothing more than a seep that had to be scraped clear of precious moisture and which collected only a few precious sips of water at a time. They spread cloths upon the ground to collect the scant desert dew, and set up little sun-stills to get more water out of their own urine. And when the time came—as Shaiara had known it must—for them to slaughter two of the shotors for food, they drank their blood as well.
If her people had not loved and trusted her absolutely, there would surely have been rebellion long before they drew within a sennight of their destination. It was only upon her word that they were making this terrible journey into the Barahileth at all. Not one of them had seen what she had seen. They had followed her because she had told them they must.
It was the third sennight of their flight—the ninth day since they had entered the Barahileth. Here the heat hammered them mercilessly by day, leaching strength from their limbs, and by night they labored through powder-fine sand that slipped and shifted beneath the shotors’ broad splayed feet, or trudged across ishnain flats where the fine white dust their steps raised burned skin raw and made lips and hands crack and bleed.
No Isvaieni expected to live to make old bones, for the Isvai was a harsh taskmaster, and no tribe could afford to feed and house any who did not contribute to the life of the tribe. If one did not hunt, or cook, or perform some other necessary task, one went from the tents to lay his or her bones upon the sand, for there was no charity given among the Isvaieni—they could not afford it. Only the youngest children were exempt from this law, since soon enough they would grow to take their place among the tribe’s workforce. What might seem like cruelty to non-Isvaieni was merely necessity, and all who lived between Sand and Star accepted it from birth. There were no weak, no ancient aged, among the Nalzindar, nor among any of the tribes.
But even so, the Barahileth took its toll of them, as Shaiara had known it must. On the third evening of their journey, as the tent was struck, Katuil came to Shaiara.
Katuil had been a woman grown when Shaiara was but a child. Her daughter Ciniran was Shaiara’s closest friend. Katuil had taught Shaiara how to hold a lance and string a bow. Age had caused her to leave the long hunts to the younger Nalzindar, and devote her time to leatherwork and the curing of hides, but she had remained a vibrant presence among them, sharing her wisdom and knowledge.
“I remain here,” Katuil said quietly.
Shaiara bowed her head in acceptance, though this was bitter hearing indeed. Katuil nodded and began removing her robes, so that if by some mischance her body should be found, there would be nothing to mark it as Nalzindar. When she was finished, she unbraided her hair until it hung loose and free, and then walked barefoot, away from the others, out into the chill desert night.
On the fifth night of their journey into the Barahileth, Malib fell to his knees and could not rise. His partner Ramac knelt beside him as the long coffle of shotors passed slowly by them. When Shaiara walked back to them, Ramac looked up and shook his head. Malib would go no further, and Ramac would remain with him. She waited with them until Ramac had removed his and Malib’s clothes and unbraided their hair. Then she bundled the robes in her
arms and walked away.
As the second sennight of their journey into the Barahileth began, Shaiara began—quietly—to despair. She would have cut her own throat with her father’s peschak before she let any of her people suspect her thoughts, but she began to believe that they were meant to die here. She had stopped sending out her advance scouts days ago. There was no longer any water to find, and none of her people had the energy left for hunting. This morning, when they stopped, Shaiara would order two more of the shotors slaughtered. Perhaps it would give them the strength to continue a while longer.
The last of the water had been measured out by careful cupfuls this morning. Not enough to slake anyone’s thirst. They might survive another day, perhaps two, without water. Then they would die.
The moon rose into the heavens, turning the desert to silver, and automatically Shaiara glanced heavenward. She knew that she was following the directions set out by the Song of Rausi precisely: he had set his course by the stars, and so was she. She knew she was retracing his steps correctly. And if you do not reach Abi’Abadshar before the sun sets again, Shadow will not need to touch the Nalzindar, for there will be no Nalzindar left between Sand and Star.
But as the moon reached midheaven, the lead shotor raised its head, pulling its guide-rope from Shaiara’s lax grasp. Its nostrils flared wide, and it began shuffling forward with renewed energy, the exhausted plodding gait of the last several days exchanged for a sudden desire to arrive at its destination quickly.
There was only one thing that could so galvanize a thirsty, exhausted, half-starved shotor.
Water.
Shaiara grabbed the guide-rope again and wrapped it firmly around her hand, hauling the shotor to a stop and tapping the animal on the knee so that it would kneel to allow her to mount. The other animals smelled the water too, now, jostling and fretting as the Nalzindar coaxed them to their knees. They’d been leading the beasts to spare their strength, using them to carry the hawks and the hounds and the youngest children, but now there was no more need.
The Phoenix Endangered Page 3
