by Martin Davey
The Canaristi knew he was stronger. He smiled, his lips thick as a feeding slug, his muscles bright and hard in the sun. “Seekers,” he spat, making the word sound a curse. It was an accent Marin knew, though he couldn’t have said where he had heard it before. The sound of it reminded him of the sea. “Must we line the road to the gods with your bodies before you turn away?” Five more blows this time, three aimed at Marin’s head, a backhand slash to his calf and then another backhand aimed at his collar bone.
Marin blocked them all, falling and stumbling backward all the time. Somewhere far away he heard Retaj fighting, the pure ring of metal on metal, the sound of a man grunting and gasping for air. Fear stark in each breath.
“Seekers.” That word again. A word in which the man’s accent was most clear. “What do you seek in these mountains? Your gods lie to the east, the truth is there my friend.” The axe raised again, an effortless motion, he could probably fight all day with that thing. Marin could still hear the sounds of struggle further along the road. He couldn’t believe Retaj wasn’t dead yet. “Why do you people turn your backs on the true gods?”
Another strike, overhand and aimed to split his head open like a peach. Marin blocked it, the force of it knocking him to his knees, crying out against the ringing pain in his hands.
Two more blows, brutal and unrelenting, and with each parry, Marin’s sword was getting lower and lower, his arm weaker and weaker. He chewed on his ferris root even as he scrambled back in the road looking up at his conqueror; tattooed head, muscles thick and the sun bright in a parched blue sky behind him. Perhaps the next time he saw the sun he would be walking on a green riverbank with flowers with heads shaped like bells nodding in the breeze and the woman with short dark hair walking by his side, her arm in his.
He smiled at the thought, smiled up at the man with murder in his eyes, and laid his sword in the dust beside him. The Canaristi lowered his axe. A drop of blood slowly fell from the blade to land in the dust of the road. Marin didn’t even know he had been cut. His hands were wet with sweat, dust and grit sticking to them.
“Marin.” A whisper. A breath. A warm breeze on a meadow scattered with yellow flowers, fat white clouds above. It came from everywhere and nowhere.
“Marin.” It came from within him, from his heart and his stomach. The Canaristi showed no sign of hearing anything. The world was a silent place. Only the drums, so constant and unchanging that they were almost not even a sound anymore.
Marin would be one more Seeker nailed to a tree, another body lining the path to the source of the drums. Would the Mahrata and her men see him on the path? Or would they have stopped looking at the bodies by then? Marin had seen the pain in her eyes with each body they passed, as though each one was a child of her own blood.
“Show yourself, Marin. Show your true self.” The words were from his very being, in his hair, his grit-covered hands, his feet, pulsing and growing within him. Within his blood.
The Canaristi stopped, his brown eyes widening as he looked at Marin. “No,” the man whispered, fear stark in his voice. “What are you?” It was now his turn to take a step backward. “Save the Keepers,” he whispered in his thick accent, his eyes wide and sweat trailing down his cheeks.
The giant fell to his knees, his mouth hanging open in surprise. He landed face first on the road in a cloud of dust, sounding like a falling tree.
Retaj stood in his place, looking every inch a fighting man with his hair mussed, his clothes ragged and bloodied sword in hand. And the look of horror on his face wasn’t too dissimilar to the Canaristi’s own before he died.
It was a long moment before Marin found the strength to move, to give his mind the time to realize that he wasn’t dead or being hauled away to the nearest tree to have a giant spike nailed through his chest. To realize that his life had just been saved by Retaj. This last had him hurrying to his feet, “You saved me.” It sounded more like an accusation. He looked down, saw the hole in his shirt, the blood staining the fabric. He was getting old and slow.
Retaj still hadn’t spoken, still hadn’t moved. Marin had never known the man so still and quiet for so long. He paused in pulling his bloodied shirt off, and looked at the younger man. The look of horror was still there, his face pale and his eyes wide. Marin looked away, pulled his shirt over his head. “What? You saved me. I don’t suppose you’ll ever let me forget that.” He found a dry corner of the shirt and wiped it over the blood on his chest, the hair there turning from grey to white.
“I saw,” Retaj still held the sword in his hand, pointed down to the road. “I saw what you did.”
Marin felt cold despite the blazing sun. He stopped wiping at his chest with the shirt. “What you did, you mean. You saved my arse.” He still couldn’t believe it.
Retaj didn’t smile. His face looked grey as he stood in the white road bordered by shrivelled trees and boulders of white stone. His hair was dusty and his sword smeared with the blood of two men. Marin had never seen him look more like a real man. Like a fighter. He felt like he hardly knew the man.
“Seriously, Marin. We have to get you back to the camp. Find out what that witch did to you. Your face...” He touched his own face, ran a finger along his jaw, brushed his fingertips over his skin. “Your face, your skin...” he shook his head. “We have to get you back to the Mahrata.”
Marin touched his own face; it felt normal. Though when he had started considering the loose skin, the fleshy chin and neck, the rough bristle as normal, he couldn’t remember. “What?” He remembered the look of horror on the Canaristi’s face as he looked at him. “What about my face?”
Retaj looked at him, the fear, the shiver running through his soul plain to see on his own face. He shook his head. “It was nothing, probably the sun casting shadows. That’s all.” He turned away, seemingly unable to look at his friend. “Come on, we need to get out of here before they come looking for these.” He kicked the dead Canaristi on the leg.
Marin could only nod. Back to the Mahrata. Had it been her voice he had heard? “Show your true self,” she had said. Marin threw his shirt away. Hiding his ageing body with its white hair and sagging belly and breasts didn’t seem quite so important when his face could stop trained killers in their tracks.
“Your true self,” the voice that might have been the Mahrata had said. What did that even mean? He ran after Retaj and grabbed his elbow. “The shadows,” he said. “What did the shadows look like?”
Retaj turned, studied Marin’s face so closely that it was almost as though he was running his hands over his eyes, his nose, his cheeks. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing really, it just looked like your skin was white and thin, hanging from your cheeks. Like your eyes were empty and your lips eaten away.” Retaj’s sudden laughter made Marin start despite himself. “Funny what shadows can do, isn’t it? Right, let’s get back to the Mahrata and tell her about these Canaristi.” The smile was as false as the laugh had been.
Marin nodded and couldn’t help lifting a hand to his face, checking that his skin wasn’t peeling away.
He scratched at his throat and pulled another ferris root out of his pocket and chewed it as he followed Retaj back down a road bordered by dead bodies nailed to gnarly trees.
CHAPTER 22
“Ysora! My child, you look terrible, come in.” Cioran looked as smart as she had ever seen him with his hair swept away from his eyes and his green tunic neatly pressed. He stood to one side in his doorway, holding out an arm to let her past. The house smelled of tea and soap suds.
She walked in, her long skirts brushing his leg. Her hands were clasped together, the thumb of one pressed against the knuckle of the other. Her mother had used to do that when she was agitated. Ysora dropped her hands to her side and turned to face the Guardian. “I...I had a restless night last night.” A restless night dreaming of a god of the sea, of prisoners being offered to the god as people danced and prayed with shells bouncing from ears and seaweed dangling from shoulders and ha
ir, the ship rocking and reeling and creaking beneath their feet as ropes were lashed about the prisoners’ ankles. When she had woken she had crafted a crude ship with the wood at her desk, another dream memory to bury on her way to Guardian Cioran’s.
Cioran looked at her from the doorway, his eyes shadowed. “Yes,” he finally said, nodding back out of the door to where clouds hung overhead like stricken grey ships in a sea of grey. “I think many of us did last night. Despite the change in the weather, it’s still too warm on a night to sleep.”
Ysora nodded, smoothed her hands on her skirts as the Guardian closed the door behind him, the room bright after the greyness of the day outside.
“You seem troubled, distracted, child.”
She could hear Voroh pottering in the kitchen, the sound of splashing water, pots banging together, cupboard doors opening and closing. Ysora couldn’t think what to do with her hands. She folded her arms. “It’s not that...” she took a breath, started again. “I was wondering what the...what did the people pray to before the Keepers came to save them?” It was a question Ysora had always wondered, but never dared to ask before. She wondered what it said about her relationship with Guardian Cioran that she dared ask it now.
Cioran paused, then moved closer, touching her elbow to lead her to a chair, the cushion warm and comfortable as she sat down. The Guardian took a chair facing her and crossed his legs. Ysora couldn’t help noticing that Cioran had prepared exactly the same books for her on the table. Did he know she hadn’t read them the day before?
“So,” he settled back on his chair as though he had all the time in the world, though Ysora knew he would have a busy day travelling about the village and the surrounding farmsteads until near dark. “So, might I ask what brought you to ask this question?” He rested a hand on his knee, his breeches neatly pressed. “Much the same as understanding which books you choose to read, understanding why you ask certain questions helps me understand how your learning is progressing.”
Ysora took a breath, “I was wondering how they could fight against the gods. I mean I know they followed their Kings and Princes, and then the Nameless One. But, I wondered how they could go to war against gods. They must have believed in something.”
Cioran looked at her for a long quiet moment. Ysora had never seen his hair so carefully brushed, his clothes so neatly pressed. He looked more intelligent, more calculating. Younger and wiser at the same time. Finally he spoke, “They believed in many things, Ysora. Some fell to their knees and worshipped the sun, some prayed to bundles of straw hanging from the branches of trees and others worshipped shadowy figures swimming in the depths of the seas.”
Ysora thought of her dream of the night before, strange priests with seaweed for hair chanting words and throwing screaming women over the sides of ships, rope wet and dark as it skittered about the deck before following the sacrifices over the side. She thought of Tiege and his Master who knew of her dreams.
“You look troubled, Ysora.” Not the first time Cioran had said that today. Her mother had always known what Ysora was thinking just by looking at her face. “Why don’t you come with me today? It will be a nice change for you instead of being cooped up with all these dusty old books.”
Ysora shook her head, “I couldn’t really, I have work...”
“Rubbish, not for hours yet. You could come with me to farmer Mashin’s at least. That is my first call today before I go to the temple.”
Mashin. That was the farmer that Tiege worked for. Ysora felt a curious lightness in her stomach as she smiled for the first time that day. “Alright,” she said. “Like you say, it will be better than being cooped up inside all morning.”
Cioran smiled, a smile bright enough to wash away the greyness of the day. “Good. It will be nice to have some pleasant company, if only for my first call of the day.” He rose to his feet. “Hal!” The door to the kitchen swung open and a tall skinny man with a mop of grey hair strode into the room, his smile too wide and his eyes too bright. “Could you prepare the horses please, Hal? Miss Ysora here will be coming with me.”
Steam billowed out of the kitchen, but Hal’s smile never wavered for a moment, he wiped his hands on his apron. “Of course, of course, Guardian.” A nod in her direction, “Miss Ysora. I’ll only be a moment.” He disappeared back into the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind him.
“You have a new servant?” Ysora asked, still watching the kitchen door.
Cioran followed her gaze. “Yes. Hal. A little old to have the Dream. And he had to walk all the way from some village near Pethuwar to get here. It took him three months. Keeper Martuk only Visited me last night to tell me of his arrival. I’ll miss Voroh, but he’s got a new place not far away.” He rose to his feet, straightening his tunic before holding out a hand to her.
Ysora looked for a moment longer at the kitchen door. Any coincidence that she was asked to spy on the Guardian and already a new servant had been on his way to the house? A servant who looked nothing like a servant and smiled too much? She slipped her hand into Cioran’s; it was cool and fresh.
The Guardian met her eyes before releasing her hand. “I’m glad we will have this time together, Ysora. I feel like we hardly spent any time together this past week.”
Hal readied the horses; Ysora’s was a short grey with a barrel chest and skinny legs. Cioran’s was bigger with a white star on his forehead and an impatient tail. Cioran rode with straight-backed ease, his gloved hands loose on the reigns as he watched Ysora shift in the saddle. “You didn’t get to ride much in your previous home, then?” He let one hand rest on his leg to twist in his saddle to look at her. The road out to the Mashin farm was narrow, barely wide enough to let them ride side by side and it was bordered by low green hedges. A dark wood glowered in the gloom of the grey day.
Ysora straightened her back. Her posture was bad enough when she walked, riding made it twice as bad. “No, we...I had horses, but didn’t ride them much.” Jenna and Liroh. She hoped the men in the red coats looked after them.
Cioran nodded, his hand still resting on his leg. “You should come with me more often, get some practice in, and Viome there could do with the exercise.”
Ysora stroked the mare’s ear. The sun was a hazy smear of white behind the sky of grey. “So, the Mashin’s. Why is it you go there?”
Cioran swayed in his saddle easily, his horse kicked a loose rock and sent it rolling down the road to the bend up ahead. “Olison Mashin is a man with a big appetite, Ysora. Fat and inclined to laziness. He came to the farm eleven years ago and now his days are almost done, he fears the wrath of the Keepers.”
“And you go to lend him comfort?”
Cioran frowned, a gentle expression full of thought. “The role of a Guardian of the Five, a Guardian of the Keepers, isn’t always to offer comfort and support, Ysora. There are those who strive and work and slave to do the Keepers’ bidding. And then there are some who are given positions of great prestige and honour and become lazy and contemptuous of the gifts of the Five. Like farmer Mashin. He is a very wealthy man, owner of much of this land,” here the Guardian nodded to the fields ahead, dull and brown and green and bordered by hedges and stone walls. Perhaps a score of people worked the fields, heads bowed and busy at their work.
Ysora held the reigns in both hands as she leaned in her saddle and looked out over the fields. A warm, tired wind was picking up, ruffling the ears of the crops, the clothes of the farm workers. The black wood stood in the middle of all the flatness like a dark conscience. “Farmer Mashin owns all that?” And Tiege was his secretary. The thought that she was going to see him soon, of what he would think when he saw her arrive with the Guardian, filled her with a thrilling foreboding every bit as dark as the wood in the middle of the farmland. “But why will he fear the Keepers if they thought to give him all this?”
“Because a gift of the Keepers is just that, Ysora. A gift. A thing to be treasured and to be cared for. The Keepers give us that which they kno
w will give us the happiest of lives. It is up to us to find that happiness, to cherish it as the Keepers cherish their own children.”
Rounding the bend and the farm came into view. A giant of a building, four stories high with black arched windows with grey curtains and a scattering of tall and squat chimneys on the roof. The front door was high enough to have fit Ysora through sitting on Cioran’s shoulders. She’d like to see Tiege’s face if she did that. Barns and stables stretched out behind the house like a tail of grovelling petitioners. Chickens and goats wandered the yard, lost and empty-eyed.
“Famer Mashin has been slothful, lazy and greedy. He’s cheated the people who work for him and become a slave to the wealth that his position brings”
Ysora had never seen the Guardian’s eyes so cold. And only as they neared the farmhouse did Ysora see the paint peeling from the windowsills, the broken furniture piled high behind the grimy topmost windows, the drooping, shattered flowers withering in the pots in the doorway. “But if the Keepers see all, see into the future, then why would they have ever given farmer Mashin the farm? Wouldn’t they punish him and make him a servant or not even given him the Dream at all?”
Cioran looked at her, his previous gloom forgotten in his smile. “That is why they are the gods and we are the children who are allowed to live in their garden, Ysora.” He shrugged, passing through a white gate fastened open with a frayed rope. “Who are we to question the Keepers? In a garden some pests are allowed to thrive, or even introduced to keep other, more insidious pests at bay. Who’s to say what role Farmer Mashin has played in our own garden? But just because he may have played a part in our garden, doesn’t mean the Keepers will love him anymore than the gardener will love their own pests.”
It seemed strange, seeing Cioran’s disapproval. Ysora had always thought him demure and pleasant and a lover of all things and all people. She looked once more to the house, it looked even taller now they were closer. The colours faded and worn in the grey light of the day. Curtains sagged in windows, flowers drooped in gardens, animals scratched listlessly in dirt. It could make her feel tired just by looking at the place. And this was where Tiege worked.
