by Jo Clayton
Serroi bent again, slipped the tajicho into its boot pocket; she held the box a moment, intending at first to toss it into the rubble by the roadside. Surrendering to second thoughts, she tucked it into her other boot.
Hern looked back. “Two days over the mountains,” he yelled at her, his words caught and whirled back at his face by the oven-wind. She raised her brows. After resettling herself in the saddle with slow care, she scratched at her complaining mount’s neck, smiled one last time at the Valley though she saw little more than a shining blur. When she felt she’d dawdled enough to make her point, she turned the macai around. Holding him at a fast walk, she rode past the fuming man, ignoring him still, knowing with some satisfaction that plumes of red dirt and bits of rock were raining down on him as she climbed the steep slope. A touch of malice lighting her eyes, she heard the whomp-grunt of Hern’s mount, then he was riding beside her; there was room for that now though the road was little more than a rough track winding through the peaks.
As long as the steep grade persisted, neither spoke, though Serroi found herself growing very aware of him. The unwelcome heat rising in her brought back with sudden vividness last year’s escape from the Plaz. She remembered running through the passage in the wall, Hern at her heels, remembered the sudden stop, Hern caroming into her, knocking her down, pulling her up again, holding her tight against him, his mouth close to her ear:
“What is it?”
“Man ahead, sleykyn it smells like.”
“One?” She could feel his breath warm against her ear, teasing at her hair; she could feel the judder of his heart against her breasts. Her breathing was ragged, her mind distract.
“Yes.” She trembled in a way that had little to do with the danger ahead or the danger they’d just escaped. He laughed; she felt quick puffs of air caressing her cheek. He caught her chin, turned her face up to him, kissed her slowly, sensuously, until she sagged against him.
The road flattened a little as they reached the saddle of the pass. The afternoon was far gone, the sky behind them darker, the unnatural coppery tinge more evident than before. Serroi scraped sweat from her forehead, wiped her hand on her tunic, rubbed the tip of her finger along her lower lip as she frowned thoughtfully at Hern. “Dark soon.”
He glanced toward her but his mind was apparently on other things; she saw that he heard the sound of her voice but didn’t take in what she said.
“There’s a track branching off from the road about two hours down from the saddle. Heads east, the way we want to go. With a spring near the turn-off and a meadow. We can camp there and in the morning get a good start to the Greybones Gate.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“We’ll spend the morrow night in Sadnaji.” His lips curved into an anticipatory smile. “At Braddon’s Inn.”
At first she wanted to argue with him, tell him what a fool he was even to think of setting foot anywhere on the Plain. He knew as well as she that meien were no longer welcome in the mijloc, he knew a breath of suspicion about him would raise powerful forces against them both and wreck the quest before it really began. She touched her graceblade, ran her fingertips up and down the wooden hilt she’d shaped so carefully to her grip, drawing comfort from the familiar feel, the satin-smooth wood oiled by her hands till she and it were linked as close as mother and child. She slid her hand along her weaponbelt, touched the coils of fine grey rope, seaspider silk braided thinner than her little finger and strong enough to bind an angry macai. She touched the small pockets in her belt, the worn comfortable leather that rested on her hips, as she wondered if this partnership was going to be possible at all. She wasn’t about to let him take charge either of her or of the quest. She glanced quickly at him, lips compressed as she saw that he was calm again with no sign of the irritation that had pricked at him earlier. He doesn’t have the least idea what a bastard he can be. Sadnaji? Idiocy! She sighed. He’s not stupid, she told herself, just pandering to that gut of his and his need to dominate. Calm reason, that’s the thing. “Even if we start early it will be very late, probably after midnight, before we get there.”
He shrugged. “TheDom’s rising full. The Road will be clear enough.”
“Dom, neither of us will find any welcome on the Plain.”
“Like you said, it’ll be dark. The town will be sleeping.”
“It won’t be dark inside the inn.” She thrust a hand at him, the green of her skin darker in the heavy light of the lingering day. “To know me takes one look and you’re not the most nondescript of men.”
He grunted, impatient with her for prolonging an argument he considered closed. “Braddon’s a good man. He sees a lot in that inn of his.” Without waiting for an answer he urged his macai past her, his pudgy body surprisingly graceful in the saddle. He’s definitely fatter. She took a sour pleasure in the thought. Damn him, one old tavernkeeper’s words mean more to him than all the reports of mere females even though they’re meien all of them. She snorted. But that’s only an excuse. All he wants is to get his teeth into Braddon’s fare.
She smiled reluctantly. Old Braddon was a good man, he was right about that. Braddon’s Inn was a prosperous happy place, one with a reputation for splendid food and fine wines that obviously reached all the way to Oras. A friend of hers, too. The Aglim were condemning all the pleasures of the flesh but surely Braddon would be safe from them, he had too many friends. She wrinkled her nose at the broad back in front of her. I’d wager my right arm his mouth is already watering. She considered letting him go down and get himself netted while she continued the quest alone. Alone. She closed her eyes. Alone. No. Later, perhaps, if they couldn’t work out some accommodation of their temperaments, she could hunt out another companion. Right now the thought of leaving him turned her cold and hollow inside. His powerful sensuality disturbed her, his arrogance infuriated her, his blindspots frightened her, but with all this he was a distraction that chased away the loneliness that threatened to break her will and send her whimpering back to the Noris. She watched the flutter of his grey-streaked hair, the roll of his body. He radiated strength, she could lean on that now and then, when the battle got too much for her—if they could work out that accommodation. Sadnaji might tame the sicamar in him and teach him necessary things about his limits; he still had to learn what it meant to move about as an ordinary man without the trappings of power, to learn what it meant to depend solely on his own wit and his own strength. She moved her shoulders, eased herself in the saddle, disgusted at being sore and tired so soon into the journey. Too bad Southport is closed to us, leaving there would have saved a lot of riding.
Yael-mri unrolled the map, set a book on one end and a small carving on the other to hold it flat. “Here.” She tapped a point just above the center of the southern continent. “You’ll have to cross the Sinadeen somehow. Too bad Southport had to be closed. Something has stirred the Kry from their sandhills; they’re swarming so thick on the ground we had to take the Southport folk behind the Wall. A shame, really. It would be much simpler to get passage there so you wouldn’t have to deal with the Minarka. That’s always a dubious undertaking.” She tapped the map. “Unless you think Oras is open.…” She smiled at Hern’s snort. “That leaves Skup.” Scowling, she clicked her fingernail on the small dark blotch jutting into the bright blue of the sea. “Too bad if your Noris has been busy there too, Serroi. Maiden bite him, he’s stirring up everything he can poke a finger in. Even the Plain isn’t safe any more.” She slapped her hand down on the map, suddenly very angry. “Meien are actually in danger there. I never thought I’d see the day when the Plain was more dangerous for us than Assurtilas.” She drew her hand across her nose, sniffed. “We keep getting girls running to us every day from the tars and the ties and the hills. Much more and we’ll have to drive the Kry off and reopen Southport so we can bring in supplies from Kelea-alela and the Zemilsud, though where we’ll get the gold to pay for.…” She broke off. “My problems you don’t
need. Well. The Deadlands.” Her nail clicked across the map, stopped to tap nervously on an irregular splotch painted blue. “Ghostwater. Don’t drink it. They say even the dust is bad there, make you sicker than you want. There’s a track of sorts and TheDom’s rising. Maiden bless, it’s only a five-hour ride from Greybones Gate to the Viper’s Gullet.” Her finger traced a line that skirted the edge of the water, stopped at a series of small blue circles. “The Cisterns. Wash yourselves down there, the macain too. Take a good long rest at the Cisterns so you won’t have to stop in the Vale. Keep to the road and don’t try talking to the Minarka. They’re.…” She smiled suddenly, briefly. “They’re terminally xenophobic. Comes of living next to Assurtilas. Baby Sleykynin use them for training raids. Strangers are not welcome. Don’t—I repeat don’t—try riding at night in the Vale of the Minar. If you start down the mountain before dawn, you should be able to reach Skup by sundown. Serroi, you and Tayyan sistered Chak-may the first year she was here. I’m sure she told you more than enough about Skup. Hern, that’s a treacherous place. The High Minarka grow madder every year. A false step, a whim of some dweller on the High Ledges, and you’re dead, both of you. You’ll need luck, Maiden grant it, but there’s no way to the port except through the city. One good thing—according to the last ships into Southport, the High Minarka aren’t mad enough to touch the Traders. This time of year there should be several ships in for minarkan preserves and fine cloth. You should be able to get passage there for the Zemilsud.” She folded her hands on the map and looked gravely at Serroi and Hern. “Kelea-alela. The Bec. Yallor-on-the-Neck.” She said the names slowly with heavy stress on all syllables. After a moment’s silence she unlaced her hands and moved a finger south over the long blue sausage of the Sinadeen to a point on the coast of the Zemilsud.
Serroi leaned back, letting her eyes droop half closed, smiling a little, amused by both of them. Hern was enduring Yael-mri’s lecture with highly evident patience and politeness. Yael-mri yielded with no struggle at all to her antagonism to Hern and to her propensity to lecture to her listeners whether or not they knew much of what she was saying.
“Kelea-alela. A Gather ago—before the Gather before this last one—Kelea-alela was the capital of a Minark colony but it broke away when the storms of the Gather kept Minark ships off the Sinadeen. The locals slaughtered the Minark Governor and any of the High Minarks they could get their hands on—a well-deserved fate from all I’ve heard.” She smiled sweetly at Hern; Serroi suppressed a chuckle. “They fortified the town. By the time the storms let up they were firmly enough in place that the Minarkan war galleys couldn’t pry them out. We’ve got friends there still and it’s the closest of the three, that’s why I’d prefer your starting inland from that point. Kelea-alela, the Bee, Yallor-on-the-Neck, you can start from any one of those and reach the Mirror. I’d better tell you about all the routes, no knowing what will happen once you leave the Valley.
“The Bec.” A long gourd-shaped intrusion of the sea thrust deep into the land mass of the southern continent. At the base of the gourd was a sprawling black blotch that marked the site of the ancient city called the Bec. “Becarnish are friendly enough. They’ve never seen much reason to leave their city but they admit that not all foreigners have their advantages so they tolerate their intrusions—and manage to find use for whatever trade goods these foreigners bring with them. You can’t insult them, they’ll just laugh at your ignorance.” Her mouth twisted into a rueful half-smile. “An outsider’s stomach will go sour after a tenday’s residence there. But never mind that. The RiverBernbec rises on Mount Santac. Here. It’s a dormant volcano with a reflecting lake in the crater. The Mirror. Though not the one you’ll look in if he lets you. It’s a wild river, more trouble to the mile.…” Her voice died away as she traced the jagged line from the Bec up into the mountains and tapped thoughtfully at the small blue circle. “Falls and rapids, underground segments. A stiff climb, but it’s clean water all the way, no fever pools.” She frowned at. Hern, her eyes resting on the paunch that was emphasized by the way he was sitting. “The mountain tribes will give you trouble if you choose to go that way. They hold the upper reaches of the river sacred and do their accomplished best to slaughter any outsider coming up there.
“The best way starts at Kalea-alela and goes inland along RiverFalele. The only problem you would face are the Niyonius Marshes, a maze of dead-end channels. No guides available. But if you manage to keep to the main channel, the river will take you straight to the lake.
“Yallor-on-the-Neck.” She moved her finger to the far end of the Sinadeen where a narrow strip of land separated the sea from the Ocean of Storms. “RiverYam. Starts from LowYallor here.” Her nail clicked lightly on the spot. “You’ve got a narrow strip of farmland, some ragged hills, then the Dar. Flat country, not a pimple for hundreds of miles, reeds growing in great clumps, broad sheets of shallow water. Most days a strong sweep of wind inland, you could use a sail to propel you rather than depending on poles or oars. A thousand kinds of bloodsuckers, fliers and swimmers. Darmen. They’re small.” She grinned at Serroi. “The tallest won’t stand past your brows, little one.”
Serroi made a face at her. Hern grinned, leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced over his middle.
Yael-mri rubbed at her eyes. “They’re shy folk, not hostile. If they don’t like you, you won’t see them, if they take to you, they’ll keep you in fresh food and guide you around dead ends. I can’t offer you any help with them, it’s been twenty years since I passed that way.” She set her hands on the table, fingers curved, nails touching lightly the map’s tough paper. “Whatever way you go—and that’s up to you—I imagine you’ll be cursing me half a hundred times before this quest is done.”
Nijilic Thedom hung heavy in the east, sitting on the points of the Vachhorns, the bleached bare peaks rising about the Deadlands. The macai’s pads boomed hollowly on the plank bridge thrown across CreekSajin, a noisy, self-important stream not quite large enough to earn the name of river. Moth-sprites flickered over the water in elaborate patterns, their small lights thicker than she’d seen them any autumn she could remember. She stopped to watch the elaborate dance, shimmering lace woven from the tiny silver sparks, caught and recaught in the broken water. She smiled with affection at the sprites, pre-pubescent girl-children carved from moonglow, no larger than the first joint of her smallest finger. After several minutes, though, it seemed to her that the dance was less complex, less free, than she remembered, less exuberant and more precise as if the forms they made had become more important to them than their joy in the making. She watched until she could bear the sadness no longer, then she hurried after Hern.
Almost swallowed by the stronger white light of TheDom, a tiny glow touched Hern’s back just above the high curve of the cantle. When she came up with him she saw a single sprite clinging desperately to a fold of his tunic, a disconsolate flicker of light gradually dimming as they left the stream behind. He wasn’t aware of it and wouldn’t have cared much if she told him, but she felt a little sick. Sprites were part magic, part natural, all too open to the corrupting and too-skillful touch of her Noris. As once she’d wept to see her beasts corrupt, now she ached to see a bit of autumn’s ancient beauty turned away from the world of joy it once knew to fit itself into the rigid patterns required by Nor mindsets and to act against its light as a Nor-tool. Forgetting in her pain the tajicho and its effect on magic, she reached out to brush the sprite off Hern’s back.
The sprite ruptured at her touch, whiffling into a lifeless husk that rolled down Hern’s thigh to be trampled into the cold dust of the road. Feeling twenty times a murderer, she closed her eyes but could not weep.
Hern swung around and stared at her. “What was that for?”
She brushed at her eyes, sighed. “You were marked.”
“What?”
“A sprite settled on you to mark you for the Nearga-nor. Going into Sadnaji is a fool’s move and you know it, Hern. They’re
warned and waiting for us.”
“Gloom and doom.” Hern laughed. “A Norit behind every tree. All this over a damn silly little sprite?” Still chuckling, he urged his tired mount into a faster shuffle and drew ahead of her again, leaving her to wonder where his wits had got or if her Noris had somehow worked on his head to blind him to reason.
She reached up and drew a forefinger gently around the edge of her eyespot. Fifteen years ago, no, more like twenty now, her Noris had learned how to manipulate her—with her eager help and the eyespot as gate. She shook off a touch of panic then stiffened. I’m like the sprites, she thought. Not all natural. She bent down, touched her fingertips to the warm stone in the boot pocket. You unmake magic. I wonder if one day you’ll unmake me. She shivered at the thought, straightened, glanced at the moons. Nearly there. She shook out the cloak bundled behind the saddle and pulled it around her shoulders, knotting the ties with trembling fingers. Magic, Maiden bless, I hate it. Hate it. She jerked the hood up over her head. I should never have been conceived, let alone born.
The Longwind blew night and day across the Tundra at the heart of Winterdeep, a ram of air so cold a moment’s exposure would freeze to the bone. Prey and predator alike slept the long dark away while the windrunners and their herds went inland to the Burning Mountains and the Place of Boiling Water where the herds could find graze and shelter from that wind of death. The Place was a long chain of valleys scooped from the black stone, tradition-tied to the various clans among the Windrunners.
By custom and by law no woman could lie with any man there on pain of outcasting should the sin be known. And known it would be if there was fruit of the coupling—all babes so conceived were misborn, marked in one way or another. Misborn, their mothers outcast, had their bodies given to the Cleansing Fire, their spirits sent home to the Great Hag on that last day of Celebration before the clans separated in the spring to follow their herds in the age-old paths down the Tundra. Serroi was conceived on a drunken night near the end of the wintering. Too much mead and too much dancing, too much warmth and too much dark and afterward too much guilt and fear even though her birthtime was no betrayal since she stayed overlong in the womb yet was born much smaller than most. And she was born perfect, rosy and well-shaped, bright, lively, a lovely babe. For two years her mother thought herself safe from outcasting but in Serroi’s third year pale green splotches like old bruises darkened her small body though her hands and face were left clear. By the end of the third Wintering the splotches spread to her face and the eyespot began to take shape between her brows. Her mother watched her with a sadness and despair Serroi couldn’t understand; her brothers and sisters either shunned her or played cruel tricks on her—that, too, she didn’t understand.
