by J. V. Jones
By sunset Ash was free of the Want—and lost. There was no sign of the Naysayer and she drifted east in search of him. When night fell she panicked, increasing her pace and bending back toward the Want. That was when Ark finally broke his silence, commanding her to fall back. He resumed the lead, and she spent the next hour staring at the stiff set of his spine in the starlight, knowing she had failed him.
She had missed markers, stumbled upon a Sull path bearing southeast and then drifted away from it. And worse, she had panicked. Ark told her she should have stayed on the Sull path and had faith that the Naysayer would find her. Never, ever, was she to head into the Want unguided.
The tone of his voice still stung her. He was a hard man to fail.
Other tests had gone better. One night the Naysayer had taken the blindfold from his saddlebag and bade Ash tie it over her eyes. She was commanded to sit in silence and imagine the flame until he spoke her name. At first she listened to the sounds of Ark and Mal setting up the camp: the hammering of posts and tearing of canvas, and the snick of a flint as a spark was struck to start the fire. She smelled roasting ice hare and saliva filled her mouth. Later, she detected the pungent reek of horse stale, and the mineral whiff of tung oil as one of the Far Riders cleaned his weapons. After that she began to lose things: hearing and smell. And time.
The flame burned strong. It was beautiful, perfectly blue with a faint gold corona shimmering at its tip.
When Ash heard her name called she snapped awake. It was dawn. She had been sitting wearing the blindfold all night.
She smiled, remembering. Her joints had been stiff and her hands and feet were cold, but apart from that she felt rested. It was the morning she began to think of herself as Sull.
Noticing the stock had finally melted, she stirred in some dried seedpods and a chunk of hare fat. The sun was rising now, throwing pale orange light onto the clouds and revealing the land surrounding the camp. A breeze had started up, and feathers and uprooted willows rolled across the frozen plains. In the distance, to the southeast, Ash spied a speckling of dark smudges that she could not recall seeing the previous night. Trees, they looked like. Real ones, not phantoms conjured up by the clouds.
“Drink this,” she said to Ark, filling his drinking horn with liquid. He looked at her a moment, and then took the horn from her. The stock must have been scalding hot, yet he took a mouthful anyway.
“It is good,” he said quietly, and then, after a beat, “daughter.”
Ash made herself busy filling a second horn for Mal. She didn’t trust herself to meet Ark’s eyes.
The Naysayer finished his drink in one gulp. His tongue steamed as he thanked her, pronouncing himself much restored by it. She loved them, she realized as she watched Mal saddle his mount and Ark begin breaking camp. She had become Sull because she was a Reach and there seemed little choice, but she wanted to stay Sull because of these two men.
After the Naysayer departed camp to break the trail, Ash helped Ark roll the tent canvas and dig out the posts. They fell into an easy routine, Ash performing the lighter tasks—killing the fire and sorting through the food packs to plan the day’s rations—while Ark packed the horses and hefted water. When everything was done, and all obvious traces of the camp were erased, Ash took out her sickle and chain and began weapons practice.
She had a better feel for the weapon now, and she could have the chain up and swinging above her head within seconds. Today Ark made her practice trapping his sword. He wore full furs and armor, and articulated horn-mail gloves. His “sword” was a tent post cut to size. Trapping a horizontal object involved altering the pitch of the chain’s spin, and Ash struggled with lowering her arm while the chain was in motion. When the metal teardrop studded with peridots swung within a finger’s length of her eye, she panicked and released her grip too soon. Ark made her do it again and again, until she’d lost her fear.
By the time they were done, her arm muscles were aching and her cheeks felt red hot. Ark’s lynx cloak was missing chunks of fur, and he frowned as he inspected the bald patches. “You must learn to move back when you are attacked by a swordsman. You allowed me to get too close.”
“Naza Thani?”
He nodded. “The Nine Safe Steps. We will practice them as we ride.”
Ash wondered how he intended to do that. When they were mounted and turning out from the camp he told her. “We will ride in single file, with you taking the rear. At all times you will keep the head of your horse exactly nine paces behind the gray’s tail.”
Ash sniffed. This was going to be easy.
They set off at trot, the morning sun shining bright in their faces. The land was flat and strewn with limestone boulders, and from time to time they’d encounter the peculiar patches of vagueness that she’d come to expect in the Want. Things shimmered in those patches, and from a distance they took the shape of hills or cities or woods, and then you drew close and saw nothing but mist. Ash felt cheated every time.
Once she’d established a distance of nine paces between the gray and her own mount, she was determined to maintain it. When Ark increased the pace to a canter, she realized it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought. The gray had longer legs and a more fluid motion than the white, and she had to push the gelding into a gallop every few seconds to keep up. The concentration it took was exhausting, and the white soon grew agitated at all the minute adjustments in pace. When Ark reined the gray abruptly, it sent Ash scrambling to shorten her reins. And just when she’d managed to get everything under control, the Far Rider pulled something new from his hat. The gray had a fifth gait; a showy high-stepping amble that fell between a trot and a canter. The poor white had nothing quite like it in its repertoire, and Ash had to alternate between a trot and a gallop to keep up.
Ark kept up this pace for the better part of an hour. Ash’s neck felt stiff as a board, and she began to suspect that the distance of nine paces was now irrevocably seared into her brain. She quite expected to see Naza Thani outlined in chalk in her dreams. Which was exactly the point, she realized.
And then she realized something else. Naza Thani was the limit of her safety: the distance at which she could remain safe and still strike. Yet if she just wanted to be safe she could fall back further. This was about more than her ability to judge distance, it was a lesson in keeping herself alive.
Immediately Ash reined in the white. A moment or two passed whilst Ark sped ahead of her before he realized what she had done. Twisting in the saddle, he turned to look at her. His expression was hard, and for a moment she thought she’d made a mistake . . . and then he nodded, just once.
She’d passed the test.
She grinned at the back of his head. The sun had long since disappeared behind a thick bank of cloud, but somehow she felt its warmth. She blew kisses at the white’s neck, and promised never to treat him so badly again. Then she remembered seeing an old winter-dried carrot in the bottom of one of the packs. Horse treat! Leaning back awkwardly in the saddle, she unbuckled the lid of the nearest pannier.
As Ash thrust her fist past the tent canvas she heard something howl. The sound felt like ice against her skin, cold and hollow and filled with dark craving. For a moment she froze, transfixed. Her fingertips started to prickle as blood left the tips. Quickly she glanced at Ark. He was holding his pace, undisturbed.
She called his name; it came out as a croak. He turned, and his whole being changed when he saw her face.
He spoke a word in Sull, the name of the First God, and asked her only one thing: “How close?”
Ash had to take a breath. With those two words he had acknowledged her as a Reach, and suddenly she didn’t want to be one. She wanted to be Sull. Only Sull. Yet there was no choice here; there never had been. With an effort she found her voice. “I heard a call, to the west. It sounded far in the distance.”
The Far Rider relaxed imperceptibly. He glanced at the sky, gauging the time of day. “We will make haste,” he said, kicking the
gray into a canter.
Ash followed, and they fled east. Midday passed, and they began descending from the high plains. The terrain grew rougher, and once or twice Ash spotted glint lakes to the south. Overhead, the clouds were on the move, carrying a newborn storm to the clanholds. Ash watched them, listening all the while for sounds of pursuit. No more calls came, but she felt something hunting her, something that wished her harm.
After the night in the ice oasis she had been watchful, but days had passed without incident and she had allowed herself to believe the danger had passed. It was a child’s mistake, and she was angry at herself for making it. Ark and the Naysayer had been vigilant as ever: they hadn’t forgotten the reason why they were here.
Ash was too tired to sustain her anger at herself for long. Ark set a hard pace, and would not halt to rest the horses. Ahead, she saw the speckled patches of darkness she’d spotted at dawn. They were drawing closer, and now she was sure they were trees. Had they reached the end of the Want? She wasn’t sure what lay to the east. Forests, she’d heard, vast bodies of timber that stretched over an entire continent. Her foster-father owned onion-skin scrolls that mapped them; beautifully worked illustrations, keyed in High Hand and gilded like prayer books. Even as a child Ash hadn’t believed them. They filled the Racklands with dangers; dragons and molten lava floes, ice sheets and poisoned swamps.
Her foster-father had congratulated her on her skepticism. A strange thing to find pleasing in a child.
Ash turned her thoughts elsewhere. She couldn’t afford to think of Iss now. Her mount was showing signs of weariness; his tail had dropped and his neck was badly lathered. She worried about the extra weight he was carrying, and remembered the release strap under his belly. If we are pursued, pull the strap. It didn’t feel right to do that now, but she called out to Ark to slacken the pace.
Strangely, he heeded her and they slowed to a trot. Ark’s stallion was glossy with sweat, but his tail and ears were up and he looked ready for another run. The Far Rider leaned forward and wiped the mucus from the stallion’s eyes.
“Is the Naysayer ahead?” Ash asked him.
“He awaits us in the trees.”
Ash felt better for hearing that. Weariness had begun to creep over her, and as the sun descended behind the cloud cover she slumped forward in the saddle. Ark passed her a silver flask, and bid her drink. It was the ghostmeal, she recognized it from its scent. The last fluid she’d drunk had been a cup of water before dawn, and she discovered she had a terrible thirst. Even so, she was cautious with the ghostmeal, and took just enough to fill her mouth. It sent bad dreams, she remembered. A fee for giving strength.
As the light faded they reached the first of the trees. They were stunted, their limbs pale and swollen with fistulas. Rusts fed on their needles, and beetles had girdled their trunks. Deadwoods. Ash recalled the name from the map. That placed them north of Clan Bludd.
Ark slowed the gray to a walk as the woods grew thicker. The moon hadn’t risen yet and there was little light. Mist began to slither around the horses’ coffin bones, and Ash smelled damp earth for the first time in many weeks. The ghostmeal had alerted her senses, and she detected complicated layers of decay beneath the damp. Her night vision improved—ghostmeal was better than carrots for helping you see in the dark—and she saw that many trees grew in clusters, nursing their sickly saplings in protective rings.
Ash was the first to spot the Naysayer. He stood on a small rise, watching their approach, his horse tethered to a tree below him. The bulk of his furs made him huge, like a god, and there was live steel in his hands. He did not make himself known until they drew close.
“Hass.” The word was many things: a greeting, an expression of relief . . . and a question.
Ark repeated the word back to him, and for a moment Ash was excluded. These two men had ridden side by side for twenty years.
“We are hunted,” Ark said.
Mal nodded; he already knew.
When Ash dismounted her knees buckled, and Mal rushed forward to put a hand about her waist until she got her land legs. He smelled familiar, and the absolute certainty of his strength was reassuring. He had picked a small clearing as their campsite, and Ash saw he’d raised a fire but had not lit it. A raccoon carcass lay skinned and quartered close by.
The two Far Riders spoke quietly while Ash found a sheltered spot to inspect her saddle sores and to pee. A decision was made, and Ark knelt to light the fire whilst Mal began unloading the packhorse. By the time the horses had been brushed and watered, and a makeshift camp raised, the raccoon pieces were crisp and golden. Mal and Ash crouched by the fire, drinking boiled water, as Ark circled the clearing, planting wards every few paces. It was something he hadn’t done since the first night in the mountains, and it made Ash afraid.
They ate in silence. Ash chewed and swallowed, but did not taste. She wished she could stop herself from listening. Sometimes she thought she heard something, a soft inhalation of breath, like a pause. But she couldn’t be sure. No more calls came, and eventually she rested her head on her knees and watched the flames. It was a dark night, she realized. No moonlight or starlight could break through the clouds.
Some time later, Ark touched her head. “Sleep.”
Even in the firelight she could see the fatigue on his face. “Only if you will.”
His smile was so fleeting she almost missed it. “Perhaps I may. The Naysayer stands watch.”
He fetched blankets for both of them, and they settled around the fire. The Naysayer crossed over to the horses, detached their feedbags, and resaddled them in readiness for a quick escape.
Ash felt herself becoming drowsy. She watched as Mal took up position on the rise. His sword glowed as blue as the missing stars, and it made her feel safe. Protected. Closing her eyes she passed into sleep, and dreamed of nothing for a while.
Suddenly she came awake. All was still. The midsection of the moon was showing through a break in the clouds. Something is wrong, she thought, but felt no alarm, only a tingling sense of alertness. They have come.
Slowly, she drew herself up to a sitting position. Ark lay asleep on the opposite side of the fire, his fully armored body wrapped in furs. Ash looked for Mal Naysayer, but could not see him on the rise. She knew that sometimes in the night the Far Riders would walk wide circuits of the camp, as much to keep their muscles from cramping and their minds alert as to guard against intruders. Peering into the darkness, she strove to find him.
Something moved on the edge of the camp. Moonlight caught an edge and ran along the length of a man’s arm.
“Mal,” she whispered. “Mal?”
A soft crunching noise broke the stillness. A bough of rotted pine snapped with the force of a blow. Behind her back, one of the horses snorted.
Ash found her weapon and rose to her feet. A cool breeze worked her skin as the blankets and furs fell away. Seek the flame, the Naysayer had told her, and she imagined it igniting with a gentle thuc in her mind.
In the gloom beneath the pines a shadow stirred. She watched it, fascinated, marveling at how it rippled and gleamed, passing in and out of sight.
“Maeraith.” Ark’s voice gave the shadow a name. Quick as lightning the Sull warrior was at her side, his furs shed, five feet of meteor steel balanced in his hand
“Behind me,” he commanded.
Ash found it hard to take her eyes from the shadow, harder still to move on Ark’s word. The thing was revealing itself as the shape of a man. Two red eyes glinted to life, burning mist with an electric crackle. Slowly, and with an immovable sense of purpose, the maeraith’s gaze sought Ash March. Ash felt the calmness leave her. She’d learned enough of the Sull tongue to know that maer meant shadow, but this thing that stood in the trees beyond the camp was no wraith of air and shade. Its mass occupied space, and when it stepped on a prostrate pine the entire tree shattered like glass.
A queer sound reached her ears, a low humming, almost like the sizzle of lightning sear
ing air.
The thing had drawn a sword.
Naza Thani. Remembering her lessons, Ash stepped back. “Do shadows cast shadows?” she had once asked her foster-father, smiling up at him with a child’s guile as she spoke, secure in the knowledge she had stumped him. She had been wrong. “Only in nightmares,” he had replied.
Ash felt as if she were in a nightmare now. The maeraith’s sword was forged from an absence of light. There was a gleaming around the edge, a bending of moonlight before it was sucked into the blade.
Voided steel.
The thing lurched forward. Ash’s gaze rose from the black abyss of its blade to the eerie glow of its lifeless eyes . . . and saw that it had found what it sought. Onward it came, crunching branches and pine needles, moving swiftly and heavily, a thing that could no longer be named a man.
Ark Veinsplitter raised his sword. He was speaking in his own tongue, his voice filled with an emotion she could not name. His face was dark and his teeth were bared, and the letting scars on his neck glowed white.
Meteor steel met voided steel with a shrill screech that hurt her ears. Glittering darkness sprayed from the blades like the opposite of sparks. The Far Rider took a hard breath, and Ash saw his sword arm bend. Shifting his grip on the midnight leather hilt, he made space for his second hand. The thing turned its blade, and suddenly Ash could see the edge; a switching, shimmering insubstance like the space between stars. Watching it, she realized she’d lost the image of the flame. The maeraith had snuffed it.
