The Grass King’s Concubine

by Kari Sperring

  The air was foul, sharp, raw. Coughing, he rose onto his knees and felt muscle and sinew protest further. He was cold and sore and alone, cast adrift on the steppe, bereft of water, of shelter. Bereft of company.

  Aude was dead. His breath caught, scraping his throat. He gulped, swayed, fought for calm. He could not dwell on that, not now. That way led only to more death. He needed to work out where he was and what to do next. He blinked, wincing at grit in his eyes, let them open slowly onto darkness.

  No, not darkness, dimness. A sepia gloom filtered in from somewhere, washing over dirty flagstones and the corners of a heavy old dresser. He tracked the light back to filthy glass panels. Not the steppe, nor yet the Woven House. Not anywhere he remembered having ever been before.

  Perhaps he was dead and this was some joke of the Masters of Dark, throwing him into confusion. Perhaps this was all that there was of that realm, which hosted the dead.

  If he was dead, then he might hope to find Aude.

  He did not think that, dead, his body would complain so much, of pain, of fatigue, of thirst. Perhaps he was dying, lying out on the cold plain dreaming. He closed his eyes again, counted heartbeats, struggling to slow down his breathing. If this was no more than mirage, he could break it.

  But when he opened his eyes again, the view was the same. So, if this was dream, it was a strong one, invading all his senses. The stink in the air filled his lungs, wrinkled his nose, offended his taste buds. Not dust, not age, but an animal musk, like that of the ferrets his brother used to keep, thick and foul. He did not think he would dream such a thing.

  This was, then, real, or real enough. As his breathing slowed, his heart rate followed, willy-nilly. He had come here…He had come here how? His bones remembered the watercourse and the endless dry dead grasses, the cold and the change in the wind. His body remembered the silence after the wind, the wreck of the Woven House. His heart remembered the charnel secret.

  Dead.

  Don’t think of that.

  All through their long journey the specter haunting them was Aude’s uncle’s men. He had lain awake, some nights, watching the light rise and fall of her breath, the movements of her eyes under her closed lids, and sworn to kill any man who tried to harm her or tear her from him. But now…The rasp in his throat came from shouting Aude’s name into the air as the light died and the wind turned. The wind had taken her, broken and flayed her.

  He could not kill the wind.

  The pony, Clairet, with her soft nose and insistent push. He had resisted at first, but he had been too tired for that to last. And he had to go somewhere…He had, he recalled, tied his inner scarf, the one patterned with birds, to the strongest of the broken beams in the wreckage, a token that he had been there and would—he hoped—return, in case Aude had survived and came back there, looking for signs of him. The pony must have brought him here, somehow, step by step through the night and the cold.

  Wherever here might be. He could not see the pony. He tried to lick his lips, to whistle to it, but his mouth was too dry. Rawly, weakly, he said, “Hey?” and coughed. Somewhere, something scratched and scrabbled. Not hoofs. He looked round, one hand to his aching neck. Dust and dimness.

  A chair stood a few feet away to his left. He shuffled over to it on his knees and used its ladder back to help heave himself upright. His legs protested but held. He said, “Hello?” and then, “Is there anyone here?” In the corner, dust once again shifted and scrabbled. This time, he caught a flash of movement, the furred tip of a tail. Rats? If so, there must be food, there must be water…

  None of it made sense. Perhaps after all this was a dream. Although, noted some tidy part of his brain, one would expect a man dying of thirst and cold to dream of water. They had said that happened, back in his barracks, that men lost in the great deserts of east Tarnaroq chased illusory springs and pools and leafy cool glades. Not this filthy room and the stink of musk. Under his hand, the chair was solid. He dropped onto it and looked around him again. Think. The room resembled nothing more than a long-neglected farm pantry. Small animal prints crisscrossed the dirty floor, and the shelves of the dresser held nothing but dust and cracked tableware. From the single door, a scuffed trail led to where he had lain, fringed with traces of more footprints, small as a child’s. Wherever he was, he was not alone; there was a stranger. Unless, of course, the pony had somehow transformed herself into human shape.

  He shook his head. That thought bespoke fatigue and did no good. Someone had found him, brought him here. He was alive, then, and no longer alone. And if he was safe, then perhaps, just perhaps, Aude was safe also. Hope bubbled up inside him, caught in his throat, checked his breath. Perhaps she had found shelter from the storm and somehow the pony had scented her. Those footprints might be hers. He swallowed, said, “Aude?” His voice was small in the tiny room. He bit his lip, tried again, “Aude?” If she had found him, she might be outside, searching for water or with their savior, whoever that was.

  Whoever or whatever. He shivered. Think, Jehan. That creature, that dry dead thing had seemed more aware of the water than of him or of Aude. He did not think it—its like—would bring either him or Aude here, wherever here was. Perhaps there were a handful of survivors eking out a living on the steppe. Perhaps there were other travelers. Perhaps Aude had found them, or vice versa, and then…

  If that was the case, where was she now? Something or someone had died at the Woven House. Two ponies…Clairet had been with him. What had become of her? What about their luggage, or Aude’s precious scrolls? Were they all broken under the debris? Questions piled up, choking him. He shook his head. He could wait here forever without ever resolving any of them.

  He was thirsty, and his canteen was not in the room with him. He needed to find out where he was. He needed to find water. He rose, carefully, body as stiff as the day after a route march. The handle on the door was cold and rusty—an iron loop, reluctant to turn. He leaned into it, and it ground itself open. The door swung inward, spilling gray light. He put up a hand to shield his eyes. Again, from somewhere, a rustle, a skitter. The acrid reek was denser here. It stung his eyes. He coughed, blinked. “Hello? Aude?”

  A skitter, then a puff of air, as if someone had just pulled the lid from a tight jar. Beyond him, back to the light, stood a figure, ragged-headed and twig-limbed.

  He repeated, “Aude?”

  “Man thing,” a voice responded. It was not Aude’s. It was hoarse and thin and high. “Man thing. Can you read?”

  There was a bare wooden table, surface dulled and dirty and tracked with animal prints. A handful of chairs stood around it, askew. On its top stood a book, a pitcher of water, and a humanlike shape. A woman, perhaps. She squatted on the tabletop, angular and skinny. The nails of her short fingers were curved and dark, her eyes matte black and shiny. Beside her, on the cover of the book, an outsize ferret crouched. That, noted some corner of Jehan’s mind, explains the smell. Maybe. The woman creature held the handle of the pitcher tight in one hand. Her face—sharp as her limbs—was fixed on Jehan. She had pulled and prodded him from the threshold of the pantry into here and shoved him onto one of the chairs before he had had time to gather his thoughts. Her skin and her short chemise were both rank with filth. He sat limply, trying not to breathe in too much. The stench was bad enough as it was. There was no sign of Aude. The only consolation—if the word were not too strong—was that Clairet stood in a corner of the room, head down into an untidy pile of hay.

  The—what was she? A girl? A woman?—the captor pushed the jug toward him. Water slopped from its rim, splattered the table. He could smell it, even over the ferret reek. The woman said, “Drink. Then read.”

  “What?” It was not what he had expected. He could see the spine of the book, bound in cracked green leather and tooled in red. Codex maior gyrivagi: de quinque regnis. The Greater Volume of the Wanderer: On the Five Realms. The first Book of Marcellan. He had never seen a copy outside one of the great temples, though perhap
s a handful of the greatest Silver City lords might have one on their library shelves. Most people, if they had faith at all, made do with an Epitome. The book did not belong here in the dust and dark. Nothing here made sense. And Aude…

  He said, “My wife?”

  “Cadre took her. Cadre have her,” the woman thing said. “We saw. We smelled. Cadre rode the wind, pulled her down to WorldBelow.” She shoved at the jug again. “Drink.”

  The woman thing was crazy, or else he was. What she said made no sense. The water called to him from inside the jug. He licked dry lips. He said, “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “We’ve done nothing. Cadre have her. We smelled. We felt. Drink.”

  “Cadre?” So there were still living men on this steppe, bandits or desperadoes. This woman might know where such men camped, what they craved…“Where are they? What do they want with her?”

  The woman thing smiled, exposing her yellow teeth. “Cadre went back below, back to the Grass King. Took her with them.”

  His hands knotted into fists. The Grass King was a legend, nothing more, a figment of the layers and layers of old tales told to children or to fools in temples. This creature was crazy, or she wanted him to think so. He said, “Just tell me.”

  “We did.”

  “There’s no such place as WorldBelow.”

  “No?” The smiled widened. “Then why did pony bring you here? The Stone House called you. We called you. WorldBelow called you.”

  His head hurt. The scent of the water in that jug filled his nostrils, filled his head.

  Aude had talked of a Stone House, a dream, a portal…He said, “That can’t be possible. That isn’t possible.” He rubbed at his temples. “The wind…She was alone in that place and the wind destroyed it.”

  The woman repeated, “Drink. And then read. Reading opens the gate.” Atop the book, the ferret chattered. Its teeth were as yellow and pointed as hers. The woman said, “Cadre took your wife to the court. Our man is trapped by the court. You read, we go, we find them. Drink.”

  He could smell the water in the pitcher, cool and alluring against the animal stench. His hand reached for it. Under his fingers, the earthenware was damp and rough. He swallowed, mouth dry, tongue drier.

  “Drink.” She released the pitcher, leaving it to stand before him.

  His fingers closed around the handle, drew it to him. There was no cup. The water inside was cloudy: dust speckles floated on its surface. He forced his eyes away, looked back at the woman thing. “My wife…”

  “Drink first. Explanations second.”

  The ferret stretched, showing its pink moist tongue. He could feel the moisture from the surface of the jug teasing at his fingers. Water. Clairet had not raised her head from the hay. A leather bucket stood beside the hay. Water enough for him and the pony…The woman did not look thirsty. She had water in sufficient amount not to be troubled. She claimed that Aude was not dead.

  He could not afford to trust her. The water was dirty, might be contaminated. The woman thing was hardly sane. The water smelled so good. He lifted the pitcher in both hands and drank. Sour, earth tainted. He had never tasted anything sweeter. The woman thing watched him, pointed face quivering with approval. He wanted to drink the jug dry and demand more. Hard knowledge held him back. He drank slowly and set the pitcher down three-quarters full. Then he straightened and rested his hands on the tabletop.

  He said, “Tell me who you are and where I am.”

  The woman thing held out a hand. The ferret licked it, then ran up her arm to sit on her shoulder. Both stared at him with their small sharp eyes. There was a moment’s stillness, counterpointed only by the slow munch-munch from the pony in the corner. Then she nodded. “Sense now. Better.” The ferret shifted, whiskers sweeping forward. The woman thing continued, “This is the Stone House. Opening. Gateway. And we are its keepers.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Thirst tamed a little, he had room now for other feelings. For anger. He inhaled, sought to ignore it. “My wife. You said she was alive. Do you have her?”

  “Alive, yes. But not here.” The ferret pressed itself against the woman thing’s cheek. “We told you.”

  He took another sip of water. Be calm, Jehan. Calm helps. Calm leads to sense. The woman was mad, but she knew about Aude. Claimed to know. Meaning…what? That Aude was, in fact here? That the woman was connected to the captors, whoever they were? He looked around him. A house of stone, solid and cool and silent. Several doors led out of the kitchen. Aude could be behind any of them. He wanted to believe she was alive and near him. He wanted very much not to be alone. The filthy floor was a jumble of prints, pony and ferret and human. A stop-start smudge told where the woman must have dragged him from the entry door to the pantry. He peered into the gloom for further traces. He said, “Why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of this?”

  “We called you. Gave you water.” She had said that before.

  “The pony smelled the water and brought me here.”

  “We called the water.”

  He had no answer for that. He stared around him once again, hoping for a clue. That book—it was old. The lettering on the spine and cover was archaic, the binding crumbling. These days, copies of the Books of Marcellan were bound small and tight, pocket-sized volumes printed on translucent thin paper and covered in supple black leather. A book like that one was as old as the scrolls in the Woven House. Older, perhaps. He did not think anyone made such intricate tooled bindings nowadays. The Stone House. Opening. Gateway. His education had been light as to matters of religion. That was Aude’s domain, part of her obsession with her history. The book’s cover was little help, worn as it was. About the lettering the leather had been tooled in a pattern that might be meant to suggest birds.

  Birds. His hand went to his throat. He had left his inner scarf, gray and black, patterned with birds escaping into flight, tied to the remains of the Woven House. An Eschappé scarf. Aude had had one, too. He had seen no trace of it—of any scrap of it—in the remains of the Woven House, though he might have expected to find it tangled up with the locket. Like him, she had worn it as an inner scarf. It might have blown away, lost now far out on the steppe. He frowned, putting together his last image of her. Scraps of garments caught on bamboo poles, tangled with the wreckage. Nothing reminiscent of her scarf. Nothing reminiscent of her inner robes mixed with that pitiful pile of flesh and bone, apart from the locket.

  It was pitiful enough in itself, this shred of a hope. It was all he had. He said, “How do I know you don’t have her here?”

  The woman thing was silent for long moments. The ferret nosed at her ear, and she nodded, slowly. “You can look.” And then, “My sister thinks you’re very stupid.”

  Her sister? She had spoken several times of “we.” That only made it more likely that she did have Aude hidden somewhere, guarded by this sister. He took another sip of water, then placed the jug back onto the table. He rose. The woman said, “You can look by yourself. We like to be with our book. And there’s nothing here to find.” On her shoulder, the ferret chattered.

  Their gazes, bright and sharp, followed him across the kitchen to the first door.

  Room led into room, each dim and still and moribund with neglect. Up stairs and along corridors, he found only dust and darkness. The ferret musk hung over everything, and here and there animal tracks skittered and nosed. There were no human prints save his own. His footfalls scarcely grazed the surface of the silence. He climbed to the topmost room and found boards and dirt and ferret tracks on the floor and the windowsill. The latter was cracked and scarred, as if someone had pried away a piece of it at some point. Resting his hands on it for a moment, he stared out at the dusty cold steppe beyond. Desiccation and desolation as far as he could see. Under his hand, a fragment of the sill shifted; he closed his fingers about it, felt its hard edges bite into his palm. This was real; this was now. He slipped the fragment into his pocket as he turned to go, as i
f its hardness might keep him focused, keep him sane in all this strangeness. The house was empty, save for the woman and her pet, his pony and himself. Nowhere amid the dust and the fragments of furniture could he find any sign of Aude.

  Cadre took her. Cadre have her. He could wring no sense out of that. Aude had spoken of a Stone House. The broken shards of her scrolls had spoken of one also, the house he had glimpsed from the dry watercourse. This house. Bad witch bargain. He did not know why that phrase came back to his mind now. He stood at the window, staring out through its filthy surface. Somewhere out there in the blur lay the husk of the river, the remnants of the Woven House. If Aude was out there somewhere, captured by these Cadre, he had scant hope of finding her. The frozen earth held no tracks. The endless plain would lead him astray.

  If there were such things as witches, the woman downstairs was as close to one as he had ever seen. She offered him a hope built on nonsense. It was perhaps marginally better than no hope at all.

  He could make it do. He would have to. He had only two choices, after all: hunt for Aude or abandon her as lost and hope to make it back to civilization. The woman at least offered him water.

  He was not ready to give up, not yet. Aude would not give up, were their positions reversed. Aude gave up on nothing, pursued her goals to their ends, however unlikely or unpopular. He had promised her.

  He would try the absurd, if that was what was required to find Aude. He headed downstairs, boots heavy on the stone treads. In the kitchen, the pony stood half dozing, leaning on the wall. The pitcher was still on the table. Two lithe brown bodies curled around it, noses touching, whiskers jumbled. The woman’s ragged chemise lay in a heap beside them. Jehan halted, looked around.

  There was a thump, a slop of water, a smash of pottery. Moisture ran from the tabletop, pooled on the dirty floor, mixed with shards of earthenware. On the top of the table, two women crouched, arms entwined, both narrow and dark-haired, both pointed of face and sharp of teeth. They were both naked.