“All things have their own song,” he’d continued, explaining that every creature had its own rhythm—a unique voice, a heartbeat, breath. So it was with the worlds. Each sang to its own rhythm, and if one could learn their songs, one could pierce the “skin between worlds.” But it was a very delicate matter, taking intense concentration and care. Fail at the song, and the skin would remain impenetrable. Make an error, and one could fall into the wrong world—and never live long enough to realize one’s mistake.
“You remember the songs I taught you?” Gleed asked, pulling Hweilan from her reverie.
“I do.”
“Good. You’re going to need them.”
They walked most of the morning, coming to the stream where Gleed had first found Hweilan. They followed it until it spread out the width of a tourney field and fell over the lip of a cliff.
Ashiin was waiting for them there, crouched in the shadows of an ancient willow whose branches played in the river. She looked at the little goblin through narrow eyes, her face otherwise expressionless. “Gleed,” she said.
“Ashiin.” He did not bow—in fact lowered his staff and stood ramrod straight.
Hweilan eyed them both warily.
“She is ready?” said Ashiin.
“She can open the way,” said Gleed. “For after …” He motioned to her.
“For that,” said Ashiin, “she is ready.”
Ashiin stood, her staff in one hand. Hweilan had once asked her about the skull on its top, and the tails and scalps dangling from its length—asked what they signified. Others who have displeased me, Ashiin had said. Ashiin reached behind her back with her free hand, and when she stepped into the sunlight, she brought her hand back around, and something flashed there. Hweilan immediately stepped back, ready to put up her guard.
Ashiin smiled and flipped the thing in her hand, causing the sunlight to ripple silver and gold along it. She caught it and held it out. “Recognize this?”
Hweilan did. The single-edged blade was as long as her forearm, the silver steel etched in curving designs that suggested eddying currents. It was the knife Menduarthis had given her.
“That’s mine,” she said.
“Was yours,” said Ashiin. “A warrior who loses her weapon has no more claim to it—unless she can take it back.”
Hweilan frowned. Not so much because the thing was precious to her. It was one of the loveliest knives she’d ever seen—and she’d grown up among dwarf craftsmen. But the fact that someone had taken it from her and was taunting her with it raised her hackles. Still … she knew she was no match for Ashiin. Not yet.
Ashiin smiled. “Look before you leap. Consider before you strike. Like the fox. A wise choice. Do well today, and the knife will be yours again.”
Suspicious, Hweilan scowled. “You’ll give it back?”
“Give? No. You’re going to earn it.”
The waterfall almost seemed to whisper, and even though it fell a good twenty feet or more, it scarcely caused a ripple in the pool into which it fell. The pool itself reflected the gray sky and surrounding trees before its far edge shattered into three streams that wound their way through a swampy lowland. As she and her teachers climbed down the slick rocks next to the waterfall, Hweilan could hear it. Something about this place …
Beat to its own rhythm … sang its own song … Gleed would have said, and she wouldn’t have disagreed with him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to think of it as sacred, not quite, but there was very definitely something … other in every sound, every scent, and the way the light rippled over the water. It was altogether different from the faith of Torm in which she’d been raised. But she’d also been raised by Scith, who, even though he honored and respected the faith of Vandalar and his family, was devoted mostly to Aumaunator, Keeper of the Sun. Moreover, being a master hunter and tracker, Scith had also given Silvanus great respect, and taught Hweilan of the Balance and the sacredness of all living things. What she was sensing … seemed much closer to that, and she took some comfort in the familiarity.
Once they reached the bottom, Gleed led them along a narrow path to the fall itself, where in one place—the only place as near as Hweilan could see—a notch of rock thrust out, causing the curtain of water to spray out in a perfect fan shape, about twice Hweilan’s height but no more than a pace or two wide.
Gleed unshouldered the bundle, reached inside and produced a wide, flat drum. It was no more than a couple of inches deep and had a skin only along one side. The back was a webbing of taut cords, both binding the skin and serving as a handle. Sacred symbols had been burned all around the wooden rim and painted on the skin itself.
“You know the song,” said Gleed, and handed the drum to Hweilan.
She took it. She’d done this several times—but in Gleed’s chambers or sitting by the lakeshore in front of his tower. Never like this. Never for real.
She stepped toward the veil of water and beheld her own reflection. Just beyond it, only black rock. She curled her left hand into a fist, then extended her thumb and smallest finger as Gleed had taught her. Holding the webbing of the drum in the other hand, she began a rhythmic beat, first in time with her own heart, then varying as she found the rhythm of the fall. Once she had it, she began the chant.
Midmorning though it was, the sun had not yet peeked through the high curtain of cloud. But as her words found the inherent power in the veil before her, she began to see light rippling in the water—tiny threads of silver shooting up like minuscule arrows, and threads of gold and crimson sparking as they wound back and forth. Hweilan didn’t allow her eye to catch on them; she looked beyond—and realized she could no longer see the black, dripping stone behind the water. No stone at all. She saw something she knew could not be coming from this side of the water—sunlight.
She gave the drum a final hard slap with her thumb and shouted the final word of the song. The veil of water responded with a flash of green light.
“Well done,” said Gleed. He took the drum from her.
Hweilan turned to Ashiin and gave the silver knife a pointed look.
Ashiin smiled. “Oh, you aren’t getting it that easy. Come.”
She stepped through the veil of water, and Hweilan followed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WARMTH RUSHED OVER HER LIKE A WAVE. SHE had never in her life felt the very air she breathed so wonderfully warm and dry. Hweilan had grown up in Narfell, where in winter exposed skin would freeze in moments and the snows only melted in high summer. This was the complete opposite of that in every way. The air held no moisture at all. It was like being in a kitchen where the ovens had been stoked for days. The water from the fall dampening her skin evaporated at once, and she actually felt the pores in her scalp loosen and expand. Unused to such warmth, her body broke out in immediate sweat.
Scent hit her with such force that she actually stumbled back a step. Not because it was foul, but simply because it was so alien to anything she had ever experienced. The smell of dust and rock baked under the sun. Mixing through it all were the scents of plants who survived in a land that obviously went months at a time without rain.
The land around her was not desert, but close to it. The soil was sandy, and from it sprouted a scrublike grass the color of straw. It grew in clumps. Here and there were twisted bushes, their tiny leaves rattling in the slight breeze. And the …
She had no words for them. They weren’t mountains, though she could see a range of mountains along the near horizon. Most of the land before her seemed to be a rolling landscape broken by dry gullies, and amongst them were towers of rock that rose hundreds of feet in the air, their tops flat as watchtowers. Behind her, she saw that another one rose at their back, its side so sheer and its top so far away that she could not see how high it was.
“Where are we?” said Hweilan.
“Far, far away from your Highwatch,” said Ashiin, “so don’t harbor any unwise ideas.”
Hweilan tore her eyes away from the hei
ght and looked at Ashiin. “You think I’d try to run?”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I swore an oath. To Nendawen himself. I—”
“Do not!” Ashiin advanced on her, but Hweilan held her ground. The two women stared into each other’s eyes, standing only inches apart. “Do not speak the Master’s name lightly.”
“Do not treat my word so lightly.”
Ashiin took one quick step back and brought her fist around, the pommel of the silver dagger aimed for Hweilan’s face.
But Hweilan was ready for it—had in fact been expecting it. She ducked under the blow, stepping back as she did so, hoping to get out of Ashiin’s reach. But the staff was already coming around for her midsection. Too high to leap and too low for her to duck under in time. Instinct took over, and Hweilan caught the staff, absorbing the brunt of the blow with an open palm, using the momentum to tighten her grip.
Pain shot up her arm, but Hweilan forced her grip to hold. Ashiin yanked, pulling Hweilan toward her fist. But again, Hweilan had been expecting this, and she rolled under the blow, planting her shoulder in Ashiin’s chest and using the force of the woman’s pull against her.
They both went down. Hweilan had not forgotten that Ashiin still held the knife, so as soon as they hit the ground, she released the staff and rolled away. She came up in a crouch. Dry soil crumbled under her hands.
The staff was already coming for her—straight down, so hard and fast that Hweilan heard it cutting the air. Hweilan twisted aside, pivoting on her hands as she did so. The staff grazed her shoulder, then slammed into the ground. But Hweilan kept the pivot moving, and brought the toe of her boot around, aiming for Ashiin’s side.
Adder-quick? Had that been how Hweilan once thought of Ashiin? No. Adders were slow compared to her. Ashiin twisted away. Hweilan missed her ribs completely, but her foot connected with the staff. It sent pain radiating outward, down to her toes and all the way up to her hip.
The staff went flying.
Hweilan was moving too fast, her heart hammering too hard, to cry out her triumph. But in her mind, she screamed—she exulted. It was the first time she had ever disarmed her teacher.
Ashiin swiped out with the other hand, and bright sunlight flashing off bright steel blinded Hweilan for just a moment. But a moment was all it took. The blade struck her in the throat, and she went down.
Hweilan’s chest constricted, and she forced herself not to gasp, for she knew she’d only fill her lungs with blood. But then the realization set in. Her throat hurt, but the knife had not cut.
“Flat of the blade,” said Ashiin, standing over her. “Had I used the edge, I’d be watching you die now.”
Hweilan’s fist closed on the ground. It was sun-baked and hard, but still, a fair amount crumbled in her palm. Before her good sense could overcome her rage, she screamed and threw the dirt in Ashiin’s face.
Her teacher shrieked—more out of surprise than fear, Hweilan would decide later, remembering this moment. But that instant of surprise was all she needed. She brought her leg around with all the strength she could muster and swept Ashiin’s feet out from under her.
Hweilan swiped her own knife—the one Lendri had given her—out of her boot, and then she leaped. There was no grace or elegance to it, but she came down upon Ashiin, one knee driving into the woman’s gut. She brought her own knife around and jammed it onto Ashiin’s throat—the back, dull edge of the blade.
Her face was only inches from Ashiin’s. Sweat poured off her and bled tracks down the dust on Ashiin’s skin. “Had I used the edge, I’d be watching you die now.”
Ashiin grinned—smiled through the tears washing the dirt from her eyes. “You’re learning, girl,” she said. “Much better today. But you still have a lot to learn.”
She motioned downward with her chin. Hweilan looked down and saw the point of the silver blade resting just under her left breast.
“No good to kill your enemy if you die trying,” said Ashiin.
“Depends on the enemy,” said Hweilan.
Ashiin laughed and pushed her off.
“I’m starting to like you, girl.”
Hweilan and Ashiin crouched amongst the broken rocks a hundred feet or so up the broken side of the stone tower. It was not the same rock formation where they’d first come to this place. It had taken them all the morning to walk there. Both women had stripped down to loincloths and their boots. Hweilan still wore a thin strip of cloth tied around her neck, wrapping around front to cover her breasts, and tied behind her back. But Ashiin was naked from the waist up, covered only in the dozens of braids of her thick hair. In the tiny cave where they’d left their other clothes, Ashiin had a cache, and from it she’d produced a clay urn. Inside was a black paste that smelled much like the tiny blue flowers that grew in the shadows near Gleed’s lake.
“To protect us from the sun,” Ashiin had explained, and they smeared it over every inch of exposed skin. “And from prying eyes.”
The paste spread slick on their skin, and over it they spread liberal amounts of dirt, which stuck to the paste. Hweilan knew that if they chose their cover well and did not move, even a hawk would have a hard time seeing them.
Less than half a mile from where they hid, tents lay in a tight grouping. At first, Hweilan thought it was for the most obvious reason—the camp would lay in the shade of the rock during the hottest part of the day. But on closer inspection she saw the real reason. In the center of the camp was a ring of stones, no more than three feet across.
“A well,” said Hweilan.
“The only water for ten miles,” Ashiin said, confirming Hweilan’s sight of the stone ring. “Out there”—she pointed to the miles of scrubland—“if you know what you’re doing, you can dig and bring up enough water to survive. But not enough to keep your horses alive.”
The camp seemed mostly empty. Hweilan assumed most of the people were inside the tents, escaping the heat of the day. But a few men, long spears in hand, sat under lean-tos, watching over the band’s score of horses.
“Why are we here?” said Hweilan.
“Those folk down there,” said Ashiin. “They survive by scavenging, raiding and hunting. A tough breed.”
“Hunters? They serve the Master?”
“They honor the Hunt, which means they please the Master. Life in these lands has always been hard, but in recent years it has become harder still.”
Ashiin looked down at the camp to be sure no one was looking up their way, then she pointed to the far horizon.
Hweilan followed her gaze. On the horizon, Hweilan saw something.
“Dust,” said Hweilan. “Something out there is stirring up dust. Coming this way.” She glanced down at the camp. “They won’t see it before it’s too late.”
“Haerul,” said Ashiin.
“What?” The name tugged at Hweilan’s memory. Something she’d seen in the Lore of Kesh Naan. Something …
“The father of your grandfather’s grandfather,” Ashiin explained. “He lived in lands far to the east of here. Hard lands, populated by people born to war, who would rather die than suffer an insult. Their khans were men of great renown. Great warriors, feared even as far as Cormyr. But Haerul … the mere mention of his name would make the proudest khan’s bowels turn to water. If they knew Haerul’s band was in their land, the fiercest warriors would huddle close to their fires and pray to all their gods and ancestors.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because tonight, you’re going to find out how strong his blood runs in you. That cloud of dust you see on the horizon? Agents of the new lords of Vaasa. Too arrogant to believe they need fear the dark. Tonight, you are going to show them they are wrong.”
It took the dust cloud a long time to cross the open plain. Hweilan and Ashiin sat in the shade, sipping water and watching the riders draw closer. The sky was beginning to take on the purple and orange shades of evening before the cloud was close enough for the guards down
below to see it and raise the alarm. The result was like watching the stirring of an anthill. People ran around, hiding possessions in shallow ditches, covering them with blankets, and spreading dirt on the blankets. As near as Hweilan could tell, there were no more than a half-dozen men in the camp, a few oldsters, and twenty or so women and children. A few older girls led a band of children up toward the rocks below where Hweilan and Ashiin hid, where they soon disappeared.
“What could they possibly have worth taking?” Hweilan asked.
“The current rulers of this land are building an army,” said Ashiin. “Locals are not particularly eager to join, so these agents … force the issue. They ride in and take any fit to bear arms—or serve in other ways. Young men and women are their favorite, though lately they’ve been taking older children as well.”
“How do you know all this?”
Ashiin smiled. In the lavender evening light, her yellow eyes gleamed and her pointed teeth shone. “The tyrants here are not the only ones with agents.” She looked over her shoulder, up at the dark crevice in the rock face above. “Rusheh, tekaneh!”
There was the slightest rustle from the dark, and a shape emerged on silent wings, gliding over them before taking to the higher air. Its feathers were the mottled color of the surrounding lands, but its eyes were round and orange as a desert moon. Large as a man’s torso, it was the biggest owl Hweilan had ever seen. She soon lost sight of it in the dusk light.
Hweilan heard the gallop of the newcomers long before she could get a good look at them. Sounds traveled far in this open and empty land, and it was almost full dark. On the eastern horizon, which they faced, she watched as the arc of a full moon, fat and blood red, rose in the dust raised by the riders.
The world seemed to shift around Hweilan, and deep in the dark places of her mind she heard a BOOM, as if a distant mountain had fallen. She had only felt this once before. On the night Lendri died. The night she had first seen …
Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II Page 12
