by Dave Smeds
"I am on Death's door," Seerie said calmly. "I have a cancer. I have no fear."
"You will," Omril promised.
"It is you who should fear, you and Lord Puriel and my nephew Claric. That was no ordinary rebel you killed."
"I have the favor of Gloroc himself," Omril said. "I'm not afraid of your prince."
"It is not the prince you need worry about. It is the princess."
III
AT IVAYER'S GESTURE, Toren stopped in his tracks. They had reached a bend in the path. Ahead, barely visible through the underbrush, they could see a hayeri nibbling at the leaves of a collberry tree. It was a young animal, sleek with fat-enough meat to last them several days. Toren had wondered when the foreigners would notice it; he had smelled it a dozen paces earlier.
Ivayer gestured to Geim, who drew out his throwing net. The undergrowth, which would have interfered with an arrow, seemed not to worry him. His prey browsed, unaware. Geim threw the net lightly. Once released, it picked up speed, flying over the brush and enveloping the animal's head. The target went down as if struck with a heavy mallet.
Ivayer strode forward at his leisure, finished off the hayeri, and settled down to gut and dress it. Geim, handicapped by his stiff upper arm, assisted as best he could.
Deena, as usual, nocked an arrow and guarded Toren while her companions were occupied. Toren, however, was not thinking of escape. He sat on a bed of ferns to observe the gutting. The men worked with a practiced air.
"Do you always butcher your game yourself?" Toren asked.
Ivayer and Geim both seemed intrigued that Toren had initiated a conversation. "Of course," Geim answered. "How else would we do it?"
"If possible, a modhiv would take it back to the village and let one of the hunters deal with it."
"A modhiv?"
"I am a modhiv," he said disdainfully. "We watch the tribe's enemies, fight the skirmishes, inspect the borders."
Geim nodded slowly. "I see. Among the Ogshiel, warriors and hunters are the same caste." He tapped his gutting knife. "Things change when one has no ancestors to tell the living how things should be."
Toren was shocked. Geim not only was unashamed that he had no totem active inside him, he actually seemed proud of it. He should not even talk to such a heretic. Yet, perversely, questions rushed to his tongue.
"That net-another gift of Struth?" Toren asked. His head still felt swollen. He had originally believed himself to have been knocked out by Deena or Ivayer, until Geim had mentioned that the other two had rendezvoused with him later.
"No," Geim replied. "This was given to me by Ivayer's teacher, a wizard named Obo, when he learned what our mission was to be. You'll meet him. He resides at the temple."
"Is that your home now, too?"
"Yes."
"Why did you come to live so far from your birthplace? Were you banished?" It was hard for Toren to conceive of any other reason why a Vanihr would leave the Wood.
"Not exactly." Geim smiled, but the expression implied wistfulness, not amusement. "Let's just say I had to leave in a hurry, and it wasn't wise to return. Still isn't, as far as I know."
Ivayer had neatly skinned the hayeri. He lay the hide down as a platter and began carving the meat. Toren gazed longingly at the handsome chunks of flesh yielding to the foreign metal. Ivayer noticed and said something to Geim.
"You ought to be truly hungry by now," Geim translated. "If we cook some of this now, will you eat with us?"
"No."
"Suit yourself," Geim said. "Frankly, I wonder why Struth made us go to so much effort to catch you." He held out a crimson hand, palm down. "I see only this kind of blood on your hands, young modhiv. You have never taken a human life. How you'll manage to take that of a dragon is a mystery to me."
Toren frowned and looked away, eyes level.
They finished the butchering, wrapped the meat in its skin, and settled the bundle onto Toren's shoulders. "We'll give you some more time to decide about the food," Geim said. "Ivayer wants to cover some ground while the weather's good."
****
By early afternoon, the clouds thickened and turned black. Thunder rumbled off the low hills to the north. Small animals darted by, their concern for shelter superseding their fear of humans. Not far ahead they saw a huge, flat boulder straddling two others, forming a natural pavilion.
"We'll make that our camp," Geim told Toren, after Ivayer had given the directive in the northern tongue.
Toren smelled the shift in the air and knew that the deluge was already falling. They could see a curtain of rain obscuring the opposite side of the valley. They arrived under the shadow of the rocks just as the first droplets struck. The full torrent soon followed, pasting dead leaves and humus to the ground, driving the shrews out of hiding, and turning every low place into a puddle or stream.
They found a colony of snakes tucked in the cleft at the base of one of the boulders, and dispatched them with swords. A pair of hawks watched cautiously from a shelf just under the overhanging rock. Otherwise the arch seemed designed for the four travellers. The floor was flat, and well protected even when the rain was driven slantwise by gusts of wind. A firepit had been constructed at the center, and wood had already been gathered and stored where it would stay dry. Ivayer dug in the ashes and found nothing but cold char. The only recent spoor around the hearthstones belonged to various species of animals.
"A modhiv camp," Toren explained. "Used by wanderers. This territory belongs to no tribe." It was used primarily by the Fhali. Toren himself had slept here on occasion.
Ivayer nodded with satisfaction once Geim had translated. Since the torrent would prevent anyone from spotting their smoke, they built a fire and took advantage of the opportunity to cook the hayeri meat.
Toren sat with his back against one of the boulders, disturbed by a gnawing tick of apprehension. It was the storm. Though the lightning had passed, and they had found an excellent place to wait out the sky's fury, he knew that afterward there would be mud. Soft ground made it difficult to hide tracks.
Eventually he managed to doze, though it was fitful. He dreamed of playing with his son, and it made him lonely. He waited in vain for the voices of his ancestors. The scent of food drove him awake.
Deena was holding out a strip of roast hayeri. "Lom," Deena said.
Toren shook his head firmly.
Rather than withdraw her offering, she pointed at the sections of the animal still cooking. "Lom," she repeated.
This time he understood. "Meat," he said in Vanihr.
She mimicked him easily. Both languages used only one syllable for the word. Next she pointed to the knife with which she held the morsel, and said, "Kolich."
In response he gave her the general term for bladed weapons, rather than one of the array of specific names a modhiv might use.
She nodded, and used the knife to cut the meat in half. "Kolich zebret lom."
"Knife cuts meat," he translated. As Deena began chewing one half, she held out the other to him. "Um lom," she said emphatically.
He took the strip.
If she felt triumph, she disguised it with a modest smile. Toren forced himself to be dignified-chewing slowly, taking small bites, as if he were not at all hungry. The truth was that the first taste made his need much worse; until that moment his body had been reconciled to its continued lack. In what seemed like seconds he was swallowing the final bit.
She made no move to get more. Instead she gave him water, taught him her word for that, the verb for drinking, and then another ten words.
"Toren um lom," he said finally in exasperation.
She smiled and cut another strip hot off the spit. While it cooled she taught him a little more, corrected his pronunciation, and eventually rewarded him with the meat. He endured it by reminding himself that his shrunken stomach would only accept small portions anyway. She had by far the greatest impudence of any female he had ever encountered. She dressed in warrior clothing, carried weapons, and
treated him as if she were his equal, perhaps even his superior. He wondered how he could subject himself to her behavior, but on a less conscious level, he appreciated the attention. It filled the hollow space left by his ancestors' absence with human companionship.
The rain slowed to steady, moderate precipitation, wet but no longer violent. Geim and Ivayer consumed their fill of the roast and began drying most of the remainder of the hayeri into jerky-as well as could be done in the limited time they had-by hanging strips high above the fire. While it cooked, Geim joined Deena and Toren.
"Yriha gam habet," Toren told him. Deena chuckled.
"I'm afraid I didn't understand that," Geim replied. "Deena has been teaching you the language of her homeland. All I've ever learned of it are the greetings and swear words."
Toren hesitated. Just how many peoples were there in this place to which he was being taken? "I said-I think-that your legs are hairy."
Geim smiled at the joke. Like all Vanihr, his only prominent body hair was that in his armpits and around his pubic area. Deena had hairier legs than he.
Once Geim had seated himself, Deena spoke to him. Toren tried to understand a word or two, and found that he could not. But that was to be expected. They would be conversing in their mutual tongue. Listening closely, he was pleased to be able to catch the different flavor of the sentences.
Geim seemed thoughtful at what Deena had said. Presently he told Toren, "She would like to know what is considered the primary duty of a modhiv."
"To protect the tribe from its enemies."
"That's what I told her. She wonders if you will understand, then, our motives for kidnapping you."
Toren stared into the flames. His captors mystified him. They were cheli, yet they seemed honorable-they had not abused him more than necessary even though he had tried to kill one of them. The thing that struck him most, however, was that it was now clear to him that the three of them represented different tribes-different races-and yet were united in their effort.
"The dragon threatens you all?" Toren asked.
"Yes," Geim said firmly. "In all honesty, I believe that if Struth's plan fails, eventually the Wood itself will feel the weight of Gloroc's rule."
Toren searched Geim's face thoroughly, but could see no trace of guile, despite the incredible claim he had made. He glanced at Deena, and saw the same sincerity. "I don't understand," he said finally, "but tell her I will be thinking about it."
IV
ELENYA SPRINKLED THE SEEDS of sweet herbs over the grave and raked them under the newly-turned soil. Alemar handed her the water bucket, from which she took three handfuls in studied precision and cast them in droplets over her planting. Finally she lowered the sprig, its length thick with the tiny flowers that, after a season, would decorate the entire mound. Their fragrance rose though the heavy foliage toward the sunlight.
Milec the rebel had found his resting place.
On Elenya's left hand her gauntlet twitched, humming like a wasp caught in a bottle, its jewels casting off sudden, multicolored sparks. She stared at the grave, saying nothing.
Alemar turned to face the solemn assembly. His gauntlet, while silent, throbbed with a glow no less vivid than the display from his sister's. "Let's leave her alone," he said, waving everyone toward the shelter of a massive broadleaf tree. His twin made no acknowledgment of their leaving.
Alemar found a grassy spot and sat against the tree's trunk. He rubbed the puffy edges of his eyelids. He had never before tried to heal a dead man's flesh, and he doubted he ever would again.
Wynneth came to him holding a ewer and a gold cup. He caught the smell and wrinkled his nose.
"No, no, no," she said firmly. "You know you need it."
She filled the cup and handed it to him. He drank it quickly, wincing at the vile taste. It was his own concoction, and would mitigate the enervation brought on by such strong sorcery.
"Thank you," he said, a trifle insincerely.
"You would have forgotten it altogether," she scolded. "I'll not have my husband looking like an old man."
"Look who's calling whom old," he said. "You've got over a year on me."
She smiled and filled the cup again.
Even his wife's camaraderie could not banish the funereal gloom. They had lost both a good friend and a capable ally. Milec's father had been the lord of the province of Yent, one of the original victims of the Dragon's sudden takeover of Cilendrodel. The son had been among the first to join Alemar's small band, and he had proved to be not only a staunch fighter but an invaluable liaison between the rebels and the displaced royalty of the nation.
Alemar glanced at one of the lookouts half-hidden in the brush. The governor's patrols were combing the area around Old Stump in hopes of catching the rebel prince and princess. Though the rythni watched as well, the two dozen men and six women of the party kept their bows strung and their sword hilts unbound. Inevitably Alemar's gaze fell on his sister's back. He could see dirt from the gravedigging caught in her long black hair.
"It did me good these past months, to see her with Milec," he told Wynneth. "I would catch her smiling for no reason at all. Meeting him was one of the few joys she's had since we returned from the desert."
"I know," Wynneth said gently. "Don't dwell on it. You can't bring him back."
He sighed, and put an arm around her. "I just wanted Elenya to experience what I've found."
Wynneth nestled her head in the crook of his neck. "I wanted that for her, too, my love. Do you think she would have found it with Milec?"
"What do you mean?"
Wynneth kept her eyes down, as if she regretted bringing up the subject at that time. "I mean that they were good for each other, and they were infatuated, but I don't think Elenya would have married him. She's waiting for someone. I don't know who. An ideal maybe, not a living man at all. Someone she can respect as well as love."
Alemar plucked a wildflower from the ground. "Yes. You're right."
Wynneth closed the lid on the ewer and set it in the grass. A streamer of sunlight momentarily peeked through a gap in the canopy of leaves and lit her short, brown hair. Even in her mid-twenties, she still had a baby face. Some people were shocked to discover the strength behind it.
"Where will we go next?"
Alemar shrugged. "Toward Garthmorron, I think. There's more uninhabited land out that way. We might find the space to breathe."
"And then?"
"What are you getting at?"
"We've played cat and mouse with the Dragon for three years, waiting on Struth before we take the offensive."
"Yes. But now the end is in sight."
"In six months or a year. We may not have that much time. It was well known how important a member of our band Milec was. If Puriel could lay hands on him, the common people will conclude that all of us will be taken. The price on your head and Elenya's is fifty amath pearls each. Even the most loyal to the cause are tempted by that. If they believe the Dragon will win in the end anyway, they may feel there is nothing to lose. Unless we make a bold move, the revolt will be snuffed out."
"I'm afraid that is true," Alemar conceded.
"I know you and Elenya have been discussing the matter. What have you decided?"
"Nothing. I wish I could be more like her sometimes," he said, gesturing toward his twin. "She knows her way and follows it without hesitation. I forever debate which road I will take. Are you so eager for the fight?"
"No," she stated firmly. "But Puriel must die."
He blinked, startled. Gradually he nodded. "Yes, unfortunately that much is clear. What I am not certain of is how horribly he must die."
It was Wynneth's turn to be startled.
"Vendetta is a serious thing," Alemar said. "I learned that much in my years in the desert. I worry that when I am done, the people will look at me with just as much fear as they reserve now for the Dragon."
He reached out with his left hand-the one without the gauntlet-and gently stroked his
wife's abdomen, feeling for the life growing inside it. "What sort of legacy will I leave this child?"
She rested her hands on top of his.
Finally he said, "Tonight, when we're well away from Old Stump, I'll confer with the rythni. I'll need their help."
****
The murmurs of the camp were indistinct behind him, as Alemar sat at the pool's edge, waiting. Serpent Moon was full, its white and blue reflection dancing on the water, the image's purity soiled by the glow of Motherworld, hidden somewhere behind the canopy of leaves. An iridescent gleam of tiny wings appeared over the stream. A moment later the rythni had settled on the moss-covered boulder beside him.
"Heeoo, Hiephora-bani," he said, quietly so as not to overwhelm her sensitive ears. She was not quite ten inches tall, slender and smooth almost to the point of androgyny, face wreathed in abundant dark blue tresses. Like all rythni, she went unclothed, but unlike most, she wore a fine gold chain around her neck.
"Greetings, Prince Alemar," answered Hiephora, her rendering of the High Speech as smooth as if it were her mother tongue. Her voice was tiny, barely able to be heard above the hum of nearby insects or of frogs calling from the stream. "You have committed Milec to his gods?"
"Yes, we have," Alemar stated solemnly.
"Our bard has already made a song about last night. It is called 'The Hero with a Hundred Wings.' May I teach it to you to pass on to your minstrel?"
"Yes, I would like that. But first, tell me how it went with your elders."
Hiephora perched cross-legged on the moss. "They're much like your own elders, I would imagine, only more so because of the centuries they have lived. To hear them talk, you would think I made my women kill a man, instead of rescuing the body of one from unkind hands. No matter. Am I not a queen? I left them to argue among themselves."
"How is the casualty?"
"The arrow only grazed her. She'll be fine. The elders had a fit about that, of course."
