by Jo Clayton
Rane blinked, swung to look at Tuli out of startled shiny green eyes. “How could I know? It’s possible, I suppose.”
“Oh.” She chewed on her lip, scowling at nothing. “How could I tell?”
“Wait till your next flow. If it comes, you’re all right, if you miss, not too good.”
“Maiden bless, that’s two weeks off. Do I have to wait till then?”
Rane grimaced, not too happy with this conversation. “I’m no healwoman, Tuli.” She grinned suddenly. “I’ve never had to face your problem.”
They started down the long slope toward the Highroad, a streak of black slashing south to north, visible sometimes, sometimes obscured by thick bands of trees, still a little over an hour’s ride away. Tuli gazed thoughtfully at the velvety black of the paving.
“Not him.”
“What’s that, Tuli?”
“Not Fayd. I don’t want his kid.”
Rane ran her fingers through her mop of straw-pale hair. “You probably got nothing to worry about.”
“Probably, huh!” Tuli sneaked a glance at Rane. The ex-meie had lost some of her usual calm; Tuli regretted disturbing her, partly because she liked Rane, partly because she depended more than she’d realized on that steady serenity to help her maintain her own calm. Still, her need was very pressing. “I’ve got to make sure,” she said.
Rane tapped restlessly on the saddle ledge. “Think hard what you’re saying, Tuli.”
Tuli set her mouth in a stubborn line, said nothing.
Once again Rane thrust bony nervous fingers through her thatch of unruly hair. “Keep thinking, Tuli. You’ve got the time.”
“Huh?”
The older woman smiled, her green eyes laughing as she began to lose the tension in her face. “There’s a man in Sadnaji I was planning to visit. Might as well detour to the Valley—it won’t be much of a jog, it’s that close—so the healwomen can look at you.”
“But.…”
“It doesn’t matter, an extra five days, it’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t fuss.”
Tuli heard the sudden irritation in Rane’s voice and fell silent.
They rode south during the mornings, starting before dawn, laying up when heat became too oppressive, starting again late in the afternoon to go on past sundown until the moonless, starless darkness made riding too dangerous. As the days passed they sighted occasional traxim circling high above the Road but these spying demons paid no attention to them—just as well for the traxim, Rane had her crossbow cocked and ready. They saw no one, spoke to no one, spoke seldom to each other. At long intervals Tuli asked questions—at long intervals so she wouldn’t wake resistance in the ex-meie—as she groped toward an understanding of Rane. The past few days had taught her how very little she knew about other people.
“What was it like, growing up stenda?”
“Like trying to breathe in a flour sack.”
“Did your folks chase after you when you ran away?”
“Yes.”
“But they didn’t catch you.”
“No. I was desperate.”
“How did you feel when you finally saw the Biserica?”
“Tired.”
“What was your shieldmate’s name? You don’t mind talking about her?”
“Merralis. Not any longer.”
“What’s it like, living at the Biserica?”
“Different.”
“How?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you. You’ll see.”
“Merralis. How did you know?”
“Know what, Tuli?”
“That you … that you loved her?”
“Don’t ask me about that, Tuli.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not that I mind talking about it, but I promised your father I wouldn’t.”
“Are you going to leave me at the Biserica?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to stay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rane, please, what did you promise Da?”
“Tuli, I really don’t want to talk about this.”
“I need to know, Rane, I NEED to know.”
“It’s nothing much, not worth all this fuss. Oh, all right. He was worried about you. I promised not to tamper with you.”
“Tamper?”
“Think about it.”
“I want to go with you. I couldn’t bear being left with strangers and I want to see what’s happening on the Plain. If I won’t be too much trouble?”
“No trouble, Tuli. I want the company. Camping alone can be a pain.”
“Rane, did you ever … uh … with a man?”
“Tuli!”
“Rane, did you want to … to tamper with me?”
“No, Tuli.”
“Oh.”
“You’re much too young, Tuli.”
“Oh.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind taking me along?”
“You’re getting tiresome, Tuli. I’ve told you a dozen times I’ll be glad to have you with me.”
“What are we going to do? After the Biserica, I mean?”
“We.” A laugh. “Good girl. We’re going to visit some friends here and there on the Plain, swing up to Oras to see what Floarin is up to, report back to Yael-mri and the Biserica. And to your father.”
“Do I have to go back?”
“You could stay at the Biserica. I talked to your parents and they told me to leave it up to you.”
“Up to me?”
“Uh-huh. Take a look around while we’re there and see what you think.”
Sadnaji. They rode through the place a little after midnight because Rane wanted to get a sniff of what it was like before she talked to her friend. It was hot and dark and dead. The air was thick and still with a staleness to it as if the bloated sun by day and the clouds by night had pressed it down on Sadnaji until it was drained of virtue. Lifeless—that was it—the whole place was like a preserves crock lost in the cobwebs of an abandoned store-cellar so long its contents were rock hard and near unrecognizable. Lifeless. No lights. No lights anywhere, not even over the Inn door. No sounds, not even hunting kankas or the buzzing night bugs. The macain were twitchy, breathing hoarsely as if they too found that trapped air unusable, wincing at the overloud pad-click, pad-click of their clawed feet. Tuli stared wide-eyed and sorrow-filled, struggling to believe what she saw and sensed. Even Cymbank hadn’t seemed so bad as this the last time she was there, but, she reminded herself, she hadn’t seen Cymbank for over a passage and “things” were probably worse there now, things being what people were doing to each other. They rode through Sadnaji without stopping; both breathed easier when they passed by the large old Inn that even in the darkness had a plaintive look to it as if it was sinking slowly into the rot of disuse.
Moth sprites danced rigid little patterns on the sadly diminished waters of creekSajin. Rane glanced at them and looked away with a sigh.
The sun was an hour up as they halted on the outlook at the topmost of the switchback turns.
The valley glowed with heat. The fields burned yellow, brown and black, the south lost itself in a merciless shimmer of yellow heat. Dry—dry as ancient bones. Sterile. Dead—that was how it looked to Tuli. The trees dead, charred, in the orchards. Nothing moving anywhere. The structures, half-concealed by blowing dust and the distortions in the air, shivered with heat, the very stones seemed to burn. A limp and languid wind blew into Tuli’s face, hot enough to burn her lungs when she breathed. Appalled, she turned to Rane.
“It’s bad,” Rane said, her voice hoarse. “But not as bad as it looks.” It seemed to Tuli that the ex-meie spoke more from hope than any real belief, but Rane turned away before she could say so, and started down toward the valley floor.
CHAPTER XII:
THE QUEST
the plateau—the fifth day
Hern stands before her. He holds her hands. His eyes are closed; he is smiling just a l
ittle. Serroi probes deep into the mother rock and calls ancient water up to her. The coldness is pain. Hern’s fingers tremble about hers. She feels him feeling the pain. For one startling moment, when his eyes suddenly open, she looks through those eyes at herself, sees the appalled and frightened look on her gaunt face, then the image is gone—a heart beat there then gone.
the same day, much later
Serroi leaned against Hern’s shoulder. He sat with his legs stretched out before him, his back against the sloping side of the ancient shallow wash, one arm resting heavy on her shoulders. He was relaxed, content, humming a rumbling, near tuneless sort of song that was a pleasant counterpoint to the singing of the water that tumbled past their feet gradually filling the gravelly holes that rainy season spates had dug out. She ignored the hunger beginning to twist inside her, enjoying her laziness too much to haul herself onto her feet and go digging around for a bunch of tough and knobby roots.
There was a flash of grey overhead. Serroi moved her head lazily on Hern’s shoulder so she could see the small grey flier more clearly, thinking at first it was some kind of passar attracted by the new water, realizing almost at once that she’d seen no passare up here, not even ground-hugging wild oadats. She blinked.
The odd little creature hovered above her, a tiny man with long thin arms, talons instead of feet, leathery wings covered with fine, grey-brown fur. Longer fur was tufted over his ears and along the outside of his limbs, grey-brown fringes that rippled in the breeze stirred up by the sweep of his wings. Behind him, farther up the wash, she caught glimpses of other fliers, some dipping almost to the water, others zipping from bank to bank. As she watched with wonder and laughter, she could feel a similar mix stirring in Hern—almost as if she were tied into his head in an extension of that brief moment of intrusion when she called the water. Both of them held very still, watching the maneuvers of the tiny flier with relaxed concentration. He flitted back and forth in front of them about an arm length over their heads.
Having gathered his courage, he spilled some air from his wings and swooped closer, bolder still as they made no threatening moves, no moves at all. His round dark eyes were lively, bright with curiosity and intelligence. His small mouth pursed and he uttered a few high humming sounds. Serroi had to force herself to stay motionless at the jolt that the sounds gave her, a powerful sense that they were language, not just animal noises; the jolt was doubled as Hern’s equal reaction fed into her system.
Another winged man dropped down beside the first; he was smaller and brighter, creamy fur on his wings, rusty brown tufts and plumes down arms and legs. He glided by them, swung around, fluttered back.
Moving very carefully she pushed off from Hern’s shoulder until she was sitting upright. At her first move the flying men worked their wings vigorously, swooped back and up. At a more comfortable distance they hovered and watched her stretch out her hand, palm up. “Friend,” she said, singing the word. At the same time she projected as warm a friendliness as she could dredge up out of herself, friendliness and reassurance. “Friend,” she repeated, knowing they wouldn’t understand the word, hoping they could tell it was a word. “Friend.”
They circled out over the burbling water, retreating nearly to the far side of the wash, their wings beating furiously for a few seconds. Then they were gliding again, riding the current of air flowing along the wash. They drifted slowly closer, responding to the reassurance she was pouring out, the hair on arms and legs rippling to that as well as the wind supporting them. “Friend,” she said once more.
Bright eyes watched her as they glided back and forth, back and forth, then she heard a modulated squeak from the darker flier. She stopped projecting (after a last burst of delight) and leaned forward listening intently. After a few more repetitions she resolved the squeak into what seemed to be two words. “Kreechnii asiee,” he said—or seemed to say.
“Kreechnii asiee,” Serroi repeated, taking her voice from the top of her throat, trying to match the lilt he gave the phrase.
The fliers rumbled into laughter. Wings beating, soaring and curling into great loops, they pantomimed their joy. Then they were back in front of her. The darker male slapped his chest, then worked his wings to pet himself out of the tumble the gesture had thrown him into. “Pa’psa,” he squeaked. The second male swooped past him, skimming perilously close to Serroi’s curls. “Soug’ha,” he shrilled, once he was safely away.
Serroi slapped her own chest. “Serroi.” she said, again keeping her voice high with a hint of lilt in the word.
The tiny males went into aerial giggles. Their antics woke an answering lightness in Serroi. Hern’s hand was warm at the small of her back, his fingers moving in a soft slow caress. His laughter mixed with hers and made a kind of muted music for airborne dance in front of them.
The Pa’psa straightened out and glided closer, pointing past her at Hern. “Qeem heeruu?”
Hern chuckled. “Hern.” he said.
Serroi’s stomach grumbled. Pa’psa and Soug’ha chattered excitedly. She laughed as Pa’psa rubbed his middle, nodded to show he understood rightly what he heard. “Hungry,” she said. Black eyes watched with bright interest for a moment longer then the two fliers darted away. She leaned back against Hern, laughing.
His hand curled warm and gentle about the back of her neck. He yawned. “Part of that wild magic you were talking about?”
“Don’t know. Nobody knows much about what’s up here.” She leaned into the slide of his hand. “That feels good.”
“Mmmm. Not animals.”
“No.” She sighed with pleasure, frowned suddenly and jerked upright. Grabbing at the pouch, she pulled the leather thong over her head and tugged the pouch open.
“What is it?” As she stared down at the gently glowing crystal, it seemed to her that Hern was responding as much to the spurt of panic that had sparked her actions as he was to those actions.
“Remember what happened to the Norit you killed when I touched him?”
“Uh-huh. So?” He pushed away from the bank, his eyes on her hand.
“I don’t want to take chances. I forgot before. She took her boot from under her belt and slipped the silver box from the pocket, glancing at him as she did so, surprised to see him frowning thoughtfully at the crystal glowing in the nest of the pouch. “Things are different up here.” She shut the tajicho in the box, put the box in the pouch and pulled the neck shut. “You aren’t supposed to notice the tajicho.”
“Ah.” He settled back against the washwall, yawned sleepily. “Thought it was something serious.” He grinned at her indignant snort. “Where you think the fliers went?”
“No idea.” She slipped the thong over her head, sat silent one hand clutched about the pouch feeling the corners of the box hard against her palm. Afraid—a little. An oddly distant fear as if something about the plateau put a barrier between her and him who she feared. With a hissing intake of air between stiffened lips, she uncurled her fingers and dropped her hand on her thigh. She felt suddenly naked without the tajicho touching her, bereft, aching as if she’d been beaten on every limb. She rubbed her thumb across her lips. Addiction, she thought. She laughed but the laughter trailed off as she began to wonder just how true that was.
A peremptory call brought her eyes up. Pa’psa hovered above her, clutching in small three-fingered hands the skinny neck of a fat tan gourd. Soug’ha was behind him with a second gourd. The darker male descended until he was just out of reach. Serroi sat very still, wondering what was about to happen.
Soug’ha giggled suddenly, dived past Pa’psa, skimmed past Serroi’s head, the tip of one wing brushing her nose. As he scooted over her lap, he dropped the gourd. With more giggles he climbed at a steep angle, his wings biting deep into the air. Pa’psa snapped with rage at this presumption. He dropped his gourd beside the other and went whipping after Soug’ha. With a hard kick he sent the younger male tumbling, wings working frantically to recover his hold on the air. Leaving Soug’ha
temporarily chastened, he came back to Serroi, hovered close in front of her, eyes like black beads moving over her face. He reached out and touched her cheek, his tiny nails moving across her skin in scratchy lines, not hurting her though she was aware of their sharpness. For an instant only he touched down on her knee (and she was very glad she’d thought to tuck the tajicho away, though perhaps up here nothing much would have happened), his hard talons pricking through the fine wool of her borrowed trousers, then he shot up and away until he was some distance over her head. He circled up there, a look of intense satisfaction on his small round face. Soug’ha flitted about behind him, a small drooping image of chagrin, his daring far outplayed by his elder.
Serroi rubbed her stomach as it grumbled again.
“Shiapp-shap,” Pa’psa cried. “Shiapp.” He swooped down, zipped across Serroi’s lap, climbed again and mimed drinking.
Serroi lifted one of the gourds. By the weight of it there was something inside, probably a liquid of some kind. She looked up. Pa’psa looped over and over, threw his head back and once again mimed glugging from a bottle. He straightened himself, his black eyes shining. “Shiapp,” he said.
“Shiapp,” Serroi said. She lifted the gourd, touched the stopper to her lips.
The little man nodded his head and darted off downstream, Soug’ha trailing less enthusiastically behind.
Serroi turned the gourd around in her hands. It had a light-tan ground speckled with orange and ocher. The outside was smooth with small smooth lumps scattered lavishly over the swelling belly. The stopper was a chunk of pithy vine. She worked it loose and laid it on her thigh, tilted the gourd over her palm. A thick, flower-scented liquid crept out, oozing into an amber pool that caught the light and glowed with it. She touched her tongue to the liquid. It was sweet-tart, not so cloying as she feared. She let the viscous liquid roll off her palm and into her mouth. Her lips and tongue tingled. Her mouth tingled, went numb, then was flooded with sensation, a dozen different tingles and tastes at once.
She felt Hern’s worry. “Isn’t that taking a chance?” he said.
She shook her head, frowned as she touched her tongue to her lips, moved it slowly along her lower lip trying to isolate the tastes, giving that up when they faded too quickly. A slow explosion warmed her middle. “Good. Have some.” She reached the second gourd around to Hern.
