The Blackgod

by Greg Keyes

  Ghan turned to face him. His speech about going back was contrived, but the outrage he had discovered was real. “You ask me what you are? Don’t you know?”

  Yen’s show of tears was over; his face was placid, his eyes frozen jewels. But though his lips formed a faint smirk, Ghan thought they lay there uneasily. He had a brief ridiculous thought that Yen had pressed them into shape with his fingers while Ghan’s own attention was on Bone Eel. In any event, Yen did not answer except to gesture with his hand for Ghan to go on.

  Ghan shook his head stubbornly. “No. You can kill me if you wish—that much is clear to me—”

  “I can do far worse than kill you,” Yen interposed, sending a chill down the knotted bone of the old man’s back.

  Ghan drew on all of his obstinance to continue. “But if you want my help, you must help me. What do you think you are?”

  Yen stared at him poisonously for a moment, and Ghan wondered how this could be the same boy who had seemed so grateful a moment ago, who had so thoroughly charmed Hezhi a year before. But, of course, they probably were not the same.

  “Very well,” Yen snapped. “I call myself a ghoul. That was what we called creatures such as myself when I was a child.”

  “You have been a ghoul since childhood?” Ghan asked, his accustomed sarcasm reasserting itself finally. It was an old friend, comforting to have around, especially in the face of this.

  “Very clever. I am not asking you to be clever in that way, Master Ghan.”

  Ghan was impressed by the gentle force behind the threat, but he had found himself now and wasn’t about to retreat to that younger, fearful self. He was Ghan, and Ghan would not cringe.

  “When did you become this?”

  “The day that Hezhi escaped from Nhol. Her white-skinned demon—”

  “Perkar.”

  Yen stopped, and a look of utter hatred crossed his face. “Perkar. He has a name. I knew I should have consulted you long ago.”

  “What did Perkar do?”

  “Cut my stinking head off, that’s what.”

  “You were in the River?”

  “In River water, in the sewers. Something else was happening, too, but I don’t remember. There was a sort of fountain of colors… no, I don’t know what it was. It was next to Hezhi.”

  Ghan pursed his lips. “I have heard of creatures like you, yes. The old texts call them different things. Names aren’t important, though. It’s what you are, what properties you possess, that matters, and you know that better than I. Are you still Yen at all?”

  “I was never Yen,” the man admitted. “I was… my name is Ghe. I was a Jik.”

  “Set to watch Hezhi.”

  “Yes.”

  Fury brighter than any that Ghan had ever known jolted through him then, and before he knew what he was doing, he had stepped up and slapped the Yen-thing, once, twice. The creature looked at him in real astonishment, but as he pulled back to strike again, anger danced across the young features. Ghan never saw Yen—Ghe?—move at all, but suddenly an iron grip closed on his wrist.

  “Sit down,” Yen hissed. “I deserve that, but sit down before you make me angry. I have much to tell you. Then I must decide whether to kill you or not.” He pushed back, and Ghan was suddenly sitting on the bed again.

  “Now listen, and then counsel me if you can. Because despite it all, our goal is the same. That you must believe. If you don’t—well, there is a way I can kill you and keep your memories. But I would rather have you alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Hezhi loves you. Because you helped me just now. Because you remind me of someone.”

  Ghan measured his breaths. Would things ever start getting simpler? He understood more about what Ghe must be than he let on. He had a few ideas about how such creatures might be destroyed. So did someone else on the boat, for they seemed to have almost done it. And yet, ultimately, Ghan thought, whatever this thing was, it had been cobbled together from a man. The pieces of it were Human, though perhaps glued together with something both more crude and more powerful than humanity. But Ghe had feelings that could be known, understood. And understanding was a weapon greater than a sword. Especially in this case, when a sword was likely to be completely ineffectual.

  But he had to live. He could not let the Life-Eater swallow him. He had read of that ability, as well.

  “Tell me then,” he said. “If what you say is true—if you really want only to help Hezhi—then I will help you. But you must convince me.”

  “I will,” Ghe returned grimly. “One way or the other.”

  When he finally left Ghan’s cabin, Ghe felt more powerful than ever, strong enough to rend the barge in two. Now his power was tripled; the holy strength of the River in his veins, the tethered ghosts at his beck and call—and Ghan, as an ally. He could never fully trust the old man, he knew, but he wasn’t without his senses. He could feel that the scholar would cooperate. Certainly he would not go to Bone Eel or Qwen Shen—though little would be lost there, since Qwen Shen already knew what he was. And Qwen Shen had tried to kill him, of that he was certain. Not herself, by her own hand, but she had arranged it nevertheless. Why? Of that he wasn’t certain, and he needed to know. Was she a tool of the priesthood or the emperor? He thought the former, or else the attempt on his life would have been far less subtle. He went to his cabin, sponged off, and changed into fresh clothing.

  He found Qwen Shen on deck. She smiled when she saw him coming. “Master Yen. I am happy to see you survived the skirmish.”

  “I am happy to have survived it,” he acknowledged. “Overjoyed that you were not injured.”

  “Well, how very kind of you, Yen. Perhaps I am winning you over, after all.”

  He smiled thinly. “Perhaps.”

  “They say there were many dead barbarians on the afterdeck,” she said. “Many with no apparent injuries. No one claims to have killed them, even the ones so expertly carved by knife.”

  Ghe bowed slightly. “It would be better that it remain a mystery. But if rumors develop, it might be hinted that I have been trained to kill with the force of my hands, without need of a knife. Such killing may leave no obvious marks.”

  She sidled toward him. “This is true?” she asked, reaching to touch the callused ridges of his hand. “You can kill with these?”

  “You like that?” Ghe breathed. “That intrigues you?”

  “It exhilarates,” Qwen Shen replied. “It makes me wonder what else such hands are capable of.”

  “Such things may be discovered,” he remarked.

  “Can they?”

  “They can.” He bowed again. “And now I return to my cabin.”

  Qwen Shen bowed back, but her eyes remained fixed on him. He felt her scrutiny return to the cabins with him. It felt, to him, like an archer sighting along a shaft.

  Qwen Shen did not wait long to accept his invitation. He had barely enough time to sit down before someone rapped on his door. Trying to anticipate almost any sort of attack, he swung his door wide, but no darts or flashing blades threatened, no incense or mysterious vapors. Just Qwen Shen. She glided through the door when he opened it, then stopped a few steps inside.

  “Close the door,” she said, and he did, latching it. “Now, then. What shall we do?”

  “I have some questions for you. If you do not answer them, I will be forced to—”

  “Hurt me? Will you hurt me, Yen?”

  “What?” He stopped in midsentence.

  “Why not hurt me first?” she cooed, reaching for the scarf at his neck. He reached to stop her, but she shook her head.

  “If you want me to answer your questions, you must cooperate with me—at least a little.”

  Ghe had not expected precisely this, he was certain. If she had been responsible for the attempt on his life, there should be some fear on her part, some worry that he suspected her. After all, he had rebuffed her advances since the voyage began. Why should he extend his own now?

  Perhaps
she had some weapon, concealed in her clothing.

  “No,” he said. “You take off your clothes first.”

  She stepped back from him, her grin broadening.

  “Very well,” she whispered. She shuffled farther back and undid the sash on her kilt, then the kilt itself. They crumpled into a pile about her ankles, revealing slim, brown legs, a thick dark scorch of pubic hair, a sensuous curve of belly. With the same enigmatic grin she shucked off her shirt in a single motion, and then she was entirely, beautifully naked.

  But nothing stirred in him, and he knew that it should. Would, if he were the man he had once been rather than a ghoul. She walked carefully toward him, as if balancing on a beam.

  “And now you, my lord.” She pushed him back on the bed, and he numbly allowed her to.

  He lay there, watching her undress him, feeling nothing save the stroking of her hands on his flesh—but his flesh seemed like wood. She flicked her tongue along and around his necklace scar, and a spark fluttered, guttered, and died. He tried then, suddenly frustrated. Could his body not remember this, remember what to do at all? He forgot about what he came here to do, forgot that he had never once desired Qwen Shen. He tried, concentrating on her beauty, her warmth, and the luxuriant softness of her flesh.

  “Ah, Lord Yen,” she sighed. “You are keeping a dream from me. That is the problem. Don’t try, don’t worry, my love. Just let me know your dream.”

  My dream is to be alive, he thought, but he knew now, for certain, that he was dead. He wondered, dully, if when he was fully certain—when every corner of his brain accepted the truth—he would return to oblivion.

  “I believe I know your dream,” she said softly, coyly. “You dream of a little girl, a little heart-shaped face, a little girl named Hezhi.”

  Anger stirred, if nothing else. What was this woman doing? Besides touching him, that is, here, there…

  “Yes, Hezhi. You can say the name of your dream, can’t you?”

  “Shut up!” It exploded out of him before he knew what was happening. She sat astraddle him, and he struck her across the face. Her head snapped back, and she gasped, but instead of shrieking, she laughed. She gazed down at him with a broad, bloody grin.

  “Say it,” she repeated.

  “Hezhi!” he snarled, and struck her again.

  And suddenly he came alive. A jagged bolt of sensation was born in his belly and roared out into his limbs, his groin. In that instant, Qwen Shen ceased to be Qwen Shen, and he recognized who she actually was.

  She was Hezhi. Not the little girl he had known but the woman she would grow to be. She still had the same face, and he was amazed that he hadn’t noticed before. The same pointed chin and bottomless black eyes. The breasts pressed so passionately against his own bare skin had been barely hinted at before, the curve of her hip deepened, thickened appropriately with the passage into womanhood. The legs were longer, almost as lean, but had more shape. It was Hezhi as she would be, his lover, his queen. Her flesh met his in ardent rhythm, and in rhythm he passed from passion into forgetfulness. He remembered Hezhi, gripping her lip in her teeth, a look of adoration in her eyes. Then he forgot that, too.

  Qwen Shen was dressing as he awoke. He brushed at the fog that seemed to hang about his brow.

  “What?” he sighed.

  “Shhh. Quiet. You made enough noise earlier.”

  “I don’t…” He was naked, his body and the sheets drenched in sweat. Qwen Shen grinned faintly at him around her swollen lip.

  “There, my sweet ghost. You rest.” She fingered her injury. “Next time you should not hit my face. I can explain it this once, but if you continue to leave marks, even Bone Eel may come to the obvious conclusion.” She bent, playfully nipped at his nose, then kissed him more fully on the lips. It seemed a distant thing, but his body still hummed with remembered passion. He could even recall the surge of volcanic pleasure…

  He just couldn’t remember doing it.

  “Thank you,” he told her as she approached his door.

  “Save your thanks for later,” she whispered. “There will be another time.” Then she was gone, a patter of footsteps outside of his room.

  With her going, he continued to cool. An image hung tenaciously at the edge of his vision, a young woman’s face, one he almost knew…

  But he could not summon it in detail, could not call it into recognition. He felt a slight frustration. It was probably some old lover, called back to his mind by making love with Qwen Shen.

  He had to have made love with her. It was the only thing that made sense. But he couldn’t remember, and that meant that the River must still be making him forget things.

  He felt—not quite resentment, but puzzlement at that. He had assumed all along that the memories he lost were parts of him that died before the River salvaged what was left of him and made him into a ghoul. He still felt certain that such was the case, because many of the things he had once known would have aided him in his mission. Not knowing the Jik back in Nhol, for instance; the necessity of killing him brought on by his forgetfulness had hastened the Ahw’en finding him. But if he could still forget things, new things… He shivered at that thought. How much of what he knew was real?

  And floating around that memory was the one he had finally recalled. He knew who Li was, knew that he had loved her and trusted her more than any mortal creature. And in his ignorance, he had slain her. Why would the River allow that?

  The pain of remembering who Li was had come closer to killing him than the sorcerous arrow that impaled his heart, but the remorse, like his passion, was cooled in him now. He wondered if it had cooled on its own, or if that, too, had been forgotten for him.

  In the end it did not matter; all that mattered was finding Hezhi, the rest was mere distraction. His longing for her was almost frantic now, though he was not certain why. He must have her, his daughter, his bride…

  This time, the strangeness of that thought troubled him not at all.

  XXIII

  Deep Wounds

  Coward, coward, coward, T’esh’s hooves seemed to beat on the sand of the gorge. Perkar bit down on his lip until he tasted blood.

  “Where are we going?” Harka asked.

  “To get something that was stolen from me. To kill a thief.”

  “That’s a riddle, not an answer.”

  “You’re my sword. I don’t owe you any answers.”

  “You just spent five days sleeping on the threshold of Death’s damakuta. Whatever you are about, you should wait until your head is clearer.”

  “I don’t think my head is likely to get any clearer,” he snarled. “It’s too much for me. I just want to be home, with my father, with my mother, tending cows. Why me! What did I do?”

  “Loosed your blood in the Stream Goddess. Swore an oath. Killed Esharu, who guarded me. Betrayed the Kapaka and your people—”

  “Stop, stop,” Perkar cried. Tears coursed down his face and streamed back toward his ears. “I know all that. I only meant…” He kicked T’esh harder, and the horse stumbled violently. Perkar’s stiff legs almost failed to maintain their grip, as they jolted to a confused halt on recovery.

  “Easy,” Harka cautioned. “I can help you see in the dark, but not your horse.”

  “She had a name?” Perkar gasped.

  “Of course she had a name.”

  “And you know it?”

  “She was my guardian.”

  “You never told me.”

  “You didn’t want to know. You still don’t.”

  “That’s right,” Perkar whispered furiously. “I don’t. Don’t ever tell me anything else about her.”

  Reluctantly, Perkar returned T’esh to a walk, at least until they were back to more open, level ground. Soon. The eastern sky was pinkening, as well, and so, shortly, T’esh would be able to see.

  “Where are we going?”

  Perkar collected himself before he answered. “I’m on some sort of edge,” he answered at last. “If I fall
one way, I become an animal, hiding from the sun, afraid of everything. I have to fall the other way.”

  “Where do you fall if you fall the other way?”

  “I don’t know. But if I let my terror overtake me, I’ll be worthless for anything.”

  “So, where are we going?”

  “It’s death I’m terrified of. The last men to hurt me so, to defeat me, are down there following us. If I defeat them, I defeat my fear.”

  “I doubt that. Many who bore me thought that by killing, they themselves could conquer Death. As if Death would be so pleased at them for feeding her that she would never swallow them.”

  “I didn’t say I would defeat Death, only my fear of her.”

  “This is not a rational decision. And you should know, because you made this same decision before, when you charged down upon the Huntress. You build up so much debt in your heart—and then try to discharge it by dying. But I won’t let you die, and so it just builds up again. Anyway, you know that when a man dies in debt, his family must pay the balance.”

  “Shut up. Shut up.”

  “Not rational.”

  “Listen,” he said savagely, “it is. First of all, this is not the Huntress and an army of gods. These are five Human Beings, nothing more, and you and I have defeated twice that number. We have a long way to go to reach the mountain, and we can’t worry about pursuit the whole way. We don’t have enough horses to keep the pace ahead of them. Better to deal with them now before they come upon us one night.”

  “But if you happen to die in the endeavor, you will die a hero, and no one will blame you for not solving the larger problems you have created.”

  Perkar did not answer, nor did he respond to any more of Harka’s overtures, until the sword—glumly, it seemed—warned him.

  “There.”

  Without Harka Perkar might not have seen them, camped in a wash and shadowed by cottonwoods. Now, however, he caught the motion of horses and men. Probably they heard him already, and he had no intention of being coy. If he did, if he hesitated, he would never do it. Terror beat in his breast, a black bat with clawed wings, and for a moment his fingers were entirely nerveless. He drew Harka anyway.