The Grass King’s Concubine

by Kari Sperring

She scuffed her feet. “Accident can be worse than intention.”

  “It’s the custom where I come from.” And that was only thinly true. Where he came from, rank and respect were the dominant modes of address. “It makes things…” What? More proper? Easier? “It makes things less confusing.”

  “There is no other man here.”

  “There are two of you.”

  She looked at him, and then she smiled. It was feral, that smile, sharp-toothed and unreliable. She said, “Julana likes simple. Names are not simple.”

  “Why not?” Watch, listen, learn: That had served him well in the Brass City. It was his best defense still.

  “Names force knowing. Sharing. Bonding.”

  It was said that the undarii, the secretive priests of the empire that ruled the Silver and Brass Cities through their regent, held names to be a source of power and were sparing with their own. It was also said that they lived for four lifetimes and killed with scents. Jehan had long chosen to take such tales with a pinch of salt. The empire of Tarnaroq was old and corrupt and its powers uncertain. He said, “You mean that if you know someone’s name, you’re responsible for them in some way?”

  “Re-spon-sib-le.” Yelena tasted the word. Then she shivered. “Too long. Too tangling.”

  He said, “Where are we going?”

  For a moment she was silent. Then she shook her head and pointed along the stream. “We follow. It leads. Come.”

  “Is it far?”

  “I know not. We didn’t come this way.”

  If there was another way …He asked, “Is this a shortcut?”

  “No. No shortcuts. Just the river. Before…” She was uncomfortable.” We didn’t come. We were taken. Bannermen took us.”

  Like Aude. Jehan said nothing and kept walking.

  They walked for hours, although how he could tell Jehan did not know. The sepia light, the star-laden sky did not change. The dunes gradually flattened out into a low plain of black sand and stone grass, like a two-color etching of the great steppe. As above, so below? He did not know. Perhaps Marcellan’s book would have some view on that. He should look, when they stopped to rest. On Clairet’s back, Julana slept, nose rammed fiercely into her paws, snoring. Yelena pattered beside him, silent and angular. Nothing moved, in all the landscape, save for themselves: no birds, no insects, not even a breeze. This place was even more barren than the steppe. If that meant something, he did not know what it was. The dunes were far behind them when at last he made out something new on the horizon. A dark smudge, low and soft, running right to left. Not another cavern edge, surely—it lacked the height. A settlement? If so, it was a large one. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward it.

  “Forest.” Yelena said.

  At home, a forest meant timber and shade, forage for pigs, trees that bore nuts or edible fruits, maybe a chance of small game. Here, that was less certain. He could hope for anything he chose, but it would be safer to expect none of it. He said, “Is it big?”

  “Big enough.”

  And that was precious little help. “What about inhabitants? Is there a village? Is Aude here?”

  “No.”

  “What, then? Animals? More guardians?”

  “Perhaps. Sometimes.” Yelena tilted her head. “It depends on the Grass King.”

  A royal forest, then. He said, “Tell me about the Grass King.”

  She glanced across at him, and her face was surprised. “The Grass King is the Grass King.”

  “Yes, but…We don’t hear about him, where I come from.”

  “Marcellan tells, in his books.”

  Few people read those these days. Jehan did not say it. Instead he said, “He has a court and courtiers. How big is it? What do people do there?” Perhaps people was the wrong word. Who was he to know what kind of creatures attended the throne of a mythical king?

  “Officials do official things. Cooks cook. Sweepers sweep.” Yelena seemed puzzled by the question. “Bannermen guard.”

  “And you and your sister?”

  “We are.” She was silent so long that he thought that that must be her entire answer. But then, “We are not told to be a job. We are told to be us. The Grass King likes us that way.” She drooped. “Liked us that way. Before Marcellan.”

  “How did he come there?” The same route along which the twins had led him?

  “He came. He did not tell how.” Yelena was once again uncomfortable.

  He said, “Are there a lot of officials and courtiers?”

  “Many many.” She pointed toward the forest. “Many like trees.”

  Aude would be used to that, at least. He could not help a twinge of pity for those who were set to guard her. She would not take to captivity. On the other hand, many courtiers, many guards would make his task all the harder. If she angered them, they might harm her. His fist clenched against his side at that thought. He would not let her be harmed. He would have little chance of freeing her by force, even if he were a great swordsman, which he was not. And as to diplomacy, that was no skill he had ever pretended to. It was, of course, possible that the twins had a plan of some kind in mind, but he doubted it. Well, he must do the best he could and hope that chance might favor him for once.

  The forest came slowly closer. At first, he could pick out variations in height and color, then the forms of individual trees, rounded of profile and stiff of bough. Leaves hung in clumps, close bound like bunches of sycamore keys. They rustled, despite the lack of wind, sending out a sweet high shiver of sound. The trunks grew smooth and straight. As he approached, Jehan realized that what he had taken for bark was the swirl of strata. Like the sentinel grasses, each tree rose straight, slender rocky growths from the sand. The leaves were sheets of crystal, shaded brown and dark green and ocher. Fragments lay beneath the boughs; as they came to the forest’s edge, he stooped and lifted one in careful fingers. Again, like the grasses, their sides were sharp. The surface was cool and slick; as he touched it, it shivered into smaller shards, sifting to the ground. Sand to tree, leaf to sand…Such terrain was harsh on Clairet’s hoofs; he threw an anxious look at her, but she stepped onward neat and calm. Yelena, barefoot, was if anything even more careless, treading where she would without looking and taking no harm. She was used to this place, as he was not. Perhaps it could not harm her. He followed her, and the trees closed about them.

  They continued along the stream as it looped its way onward. Here and there, a shining root broke the surface of the bank, reaching down into the water. A tree in any forest in his world might do the same, and yet…Stone and sand and water, barren of any life that he might recognize. Even the mosses and ferns were absent. He said, “Does nothing grow here?”

  “Trees.” Yelena gestured about them.

  “But…” He shook his head. “I meant plants.”

  “Plants grow in their places. This is not their place.”

  “You said there was food.”

  “Yes.”

  He opened his mouth to ask about that, closed it again. He could hear her answer already. Food is in its place. This is not its place. At least there was water and plenty of it. Instead he asked, “What kind of trees are these?”

  “The kind that belong here.”

  He might, had he thought of it, have predicted that answer also. He fell silent, watching the water slip by, listening to the high voice of the leaves. He had no idea how much time had passed since they left the Stone House. Hours, and yet he was not tired, only absently hungry. The stream water had assuaged his thirst. Clairet was as fresh as he felt, her head high. On her back, Julana still slept, but the twins were no guide to normality.

  Something moved, away through the water on the other side of the stream. He peered through the dark boughs, but could see nothing. He said, “There are no guardians here, is that right?”

  “No guardians.”

  It had been a leaf falling, nothing more, a bough shifting under the weight it bore. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes turned that way.
They pattered on along the stream, and all around them was once again still, save themselves and the water and the pattern of shadows that the trees threw across it.

  Another hour—or another minute, he had lost all sense for such things—passed, and the stream widened out, its banks growing steeper, so that they must all walk more cautiously, even Yelena. It might have been one of the woods of his childhood, always as long as one did not look too close. The shadows were deeper here, and the debris of leaves lay in piles about the tree boles. He could barely see the sky, obscured as it was by a roof of branches. The ground sloped upward now, the stream beginning to carve itself a gorge beneath them, revealing the bones of rock beneath the sand, dark and jagged. They walked in silence, Jehan pausing now and again to sip water or to offer it to Clairet.

  They came to the top of a small rise, and Yelena halted. She said, “This place is good. We rest now.”

  It looked no different from any other part of the forest to him. There was perhaps a little more space between the trees; the stream’s descent perhaps a little gentler than it had been for a while. He untied the saddlebags from Clairet’s back, disturbing Julana as he did so. She blinked at him, yawned, stretched along the pony’s neck. When he offered her a hand, she hopped onto it without reluctance or hostility. Once on the ground, she ran to crouch next to her sister. Their argument, if that was the word for it, was over, it appeared. He propped the saddlebags against a tree, then fished out a currycomb. Clairet leaned into him as he brushed her, pushing her nose into his spare hand, her breath warm and damp against his palm. After he had groomed her, he poured grain and water for her and left her standing comfortably in a wide patch of shade.

  The twins, both once again in ferret shape, were already asleep, curled together in a drift of the sharp leaves. He would not have chosen such a bed. Then again, he lacked the protection of their thick fur. He unrolled his outer coat and jerkin from his possessions and spread them out below another tree. Then he sat down, leaning on the trunk, and stretched his legs out before him. Was he tired? He was not sure. He sipped more water, chewed his way through another piece of dry biscuit. Clairet had finished her own meal and now also slept. He might look at the book, learn more about this alien place. He was quite comfortable where he was. Retrieving the book would entail moving. He wriggled his shoulders against the tree, decided it was a little hard. His outer scarf was still in his coat pocket; he tugged it out and folded it into a pillow to put behind him against the low slope where trunk met the ground. Yes, that was better. He stretched again, finding the best positions for spine and neck, folded his arms across his chest, and let his eyes droop. The crystal leaves sang him softly into sleep.

  The breeze woke him, a drift of humid air running its fingers over his skin, riffling through his hair. It came again, salt-tinged and sticky and he put up a hand against it, blinking as it reached for his lashes. He rubbed his eyes and looked around him. In the sepia gloom, Clairet dozed, head down. The twins were locked in a knot in their bed of crystal. All around him, the trees stirred and whispered, leaves chattering and shivering. Beneath their music, the stream shuffled and muttered in counterpoint. He stretched, working the knot from between his shoulder blades. His hip ached dully; wriggling, he found that the lump of stone he had picked up in the Stone House had shifted and was digging into him through the fabric of his pocket. He fished it out and tucked it instead into a jacket pocket. It sat heavy in his palm, warm from lying under him, very plain in this place of shimmer and glisten. Otherwise, he was a little stiff, but nothing worse, more rested than he had been for several days. He rose carefully and crossed to his baggage. Clairet opened her eyes to a squint, looked, closed them again. The twins slept on. He fished out a handful of dried fruit, took several long swallows of water. The breeze tugged at him, plucking at his shirtsleeves. Salt and another thing. Oranges? Both were new. He frowned a little. From which direction was it blowing? It eddied around him, pulling away from the river, in under the tree boughs.

  Pulling at him and at the leaves closest to him. Clairet’s mane and tail hung motionless. No disturbance ran through the twins’ fur. He hesitated, peering into the forest. What kind of wind was this that might choose its targets? Overhead, the leaves chimed. He could see nothing out of place—as far as he could know—in this alien landscape. Tree limbs and leaf shadow, drifts of crystal debris and those curving roots. He bit his lip. This was not his environment. He knew almost nothing of its features and hazards.

  The twins claimed the forest probably held no guardians. Aude, doubtless, would plunge into it in answer to this call and expect him to follow. He shook his head and buckled on his sword. He could continue in ignorance, allow himself to be towed hither and thither, passive companion to women’s quests. Or he might go and look for himself, as he would have done in the Brass City.

  In the Brass City, he would have left a note or told the officer of the watch what he intended. Here…The twins could not read. He ran a hand along Clairet’s spine, whispered into her sleepy ear, “I’m following the breeze. Please tell them when they wake.”

  And then, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion, he stepped into the shadows below the trees. The breeze swirled around him, striking bright new notes from the trees. Beneath his feet, leaf fragments crunched. Tree boles closed around him, their long branches shading him, crosshatching his view. As he drew away from the river and its gorge, the ground grew progressively more uneven, lifted and twisted by the great strong roots that twined through it. He found he must step cautiously, lest he become snared by one of those long runners. Overhead, to either side, the trees still sang to him, their many voices sweet and cool, shushing and susurrating, slipping their words slowly under his skin. It began as a tickle, the faintest trickle into ears, over fingertips and hair ends, a soft, slow wash of names, of pieces of pictures: Here the glimpse of a laughing blue eye, there the touch of sheep’s wool; here the taste crisp on his tongue of sour apples, there the sharp odor of boot polish. Wood smoke and loam, blood and the crackle of frost on glass, silk sliding over skin and the catch of thread in roughened hands. A hundred hundred mundane memories, sung and shaken out across the forest: Close the gate, boy; oh, where is my mother’s washbowl; it hurts, it hurts, and my eyes are full of blood; I thought you loved me, I thought you meant what you said… He stumbled, knocked off balance by the tumbling rush of thoughts and moments not his own, and caught his balance against the bole of a tree. Its bark was slick and smooth; as he touched it, a shock ran through him like the touch of a hot poker: My name is Achtred Cordwainer, I sell my wares in Nesston, my horse has gone lame… The breeze grasped him, slipping its long fingers down between his palm and the tree, dulling that strange capturing voice, and he pulled back.

  No guardians. He was far from sure he believed that. He looked back over his shoulder and realized he was out of sight of the camp. He could retrace his steps—he had traveled in a pretty straight line. He was not sure he believed that, either. He shook his head, close to inappropriate laughter. What was wrong with him, these days, chasing after one idea and another? Chasing a snatch of wind…In the back of his head, he heard Yelena’s voice, telling him of Aude’s fate. Cadre took her. Cadre have her. Cadre rode the wind, pulled her down to WorldBelow. Perhaps this breeze was simply another snare, twined to catch him. Or perhaps it would take him to Aude.

  He stopped, and the breeze danced around him, toying with the lightest pieces of leaf. Still that tang of salt and orange. A sea of moss and a door in a solid wall. A forest made up, it seemed, of memories. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, found it hard and reassuring. Then he straightened and made himself go on. The breeze—his breeze—kicked up a flurry of joyful fragments, caressed his face, and tugged him onward.

  He followed it through the speaking trees, head down, trying not to be caught by their broken tales. Like Aude’s shattered scrolls, glimpses of things he did not know, did not want to know, shreds of pasts that were not his
, assailed by their sounds and tastes, scents and tangible memories. At least, he thought, at least there are no visions to go with them. Hard enough to progress as it was. If there had also been things he must see, he would never succeed in setting one foot in front of the other.

  Ahead, amid the boughs, something moved, bigger and slower than the dance of leaves. For a moment, he wondered if he had dragged a hallucination into being just by thinking of it. Then he shook his head. He had seen something earlier, as they walked along the bank of the river. Yelena had said there were no guardians; she had not said that the forest was wholly without inhabitants. Hand still on his sword, he walked toward the motion, and the wind curved about him, pushing him now, as if it would hasten him. This, then, was its goal: this was what he was called to find. He stepped over another raised root and found himself in a clearing.

  It was roughly oval in shape and carpeted in a mixture of leaf mulch, saplings, and patches of bright green moss. Here and there stones rose, rounded and stumpy, making a ragged aisle from one end to the other. In the middle, between the two tallest stones, stood a slender broken tree trunk, fractured and dull and boughless. Something hung around it, faint as mist, fine as a muslin veil, flapping and shifting in that same breeze that had pulled him hither. The scents of salt and oranges were stronger, the voices, the tree-caught memories softer, muted. Overhead, stars stood in their stiff arrays. As he walked into the glade, the moss sank under his boots, puffing up moisture. The breeze dropped, and he was abruptly alone.

  He walked into the aisle. On either side, stones flanked him, gray and rough skinned, more like the fabric of the Stone House than the shining sharp trees. Time and wind had abraded their surfaces into the semblance of whorls and coils. Their shadows fell across him from either side. Not possible, said the chill voice in the back of his head. And then, If anything here can be said to be possible. It seemed to him that they watched him from their many flaking cracks and splits. They stood perhaps as high as his waist. Old, said the voice. Older than the trees. Older than the Stone House. Old like the sky and the cavern walls. He did not know how he knew that, unless it was some primitive memory encoded in his bones. He walked on, and the stones paced him, like the columns in the Bell Temple in the Brass City or the wood pillars of the barracks’ mess hall. Stone House, stone boat, stone aisle… What was it the twins had said lay under the Grass King’s dominion? Stone and growth, earth and grass and grain, trees and blossom. Well, and he had some of that here, if one might count trees of crystal. The farther he walked into the aisle, the quieter everything became, until he stood at last in silence before the tree. It rose to perhaps four feet above his head, stark and black, and the gauze wisp twitched around it, twisting first this way then that, fluttering. He put out his hand—the left one: The right rested still on his sword.