by Greg Keyes
“I think,” Perkar said, “that you had better go get your sword.”
Ngangata shot him a little sarcastic smirk. “Well,” he said, “if I had a sword, perhaps I would.”
“No,” the Kapaka said. “Stop this, you two.”
“If you don’t have a sword, we can fight with our hands,” Perkar said. Apad and Eruka, behind him, made encouraging noises.
An odd look settled over Ngangata’s face then. It was a look of weary resignation, of boredom almost.
“Let’s go, then,” he said.
Eruka and Apad were hooting now, shouting Perkar’s name. Perkar laid his sword carefully on a stone. He pointed to the widest, most open section of the cave. Ngangata nodded and strode there, turned to face Perkar with his knees flexed.
Perkar expected the king to stop them at any moment, but the older man, after his single injunction, had fallen silent.
Perkar wiped his hands on his trousers as he assessed his opponent. Ngangata was shorter than he by nearly a head, but more heavily muscled. Perkar remembered the half man’s proficiency with the bow, wondered what other skills he might have.
Ngangata was waiting for him to make the first move; Perkar, to his astonishment, realized that the smaller man was reluctant to attack him.
Always keep your balance, Perkar’s father had taught him. He did, stepping quickly but with his weight centered, and threw a punch at Ngangata’s head. The half man jerked away from the blow, but the contact was still solid. Ngangata reeled away from him.
Perkar resumed his stance. He did not want to be tricked into a rash attack. He grinned despite himself—Apad and Eruka were applauding him.
He swung again, and this time Ngangata brought an arm up, actually caught the blow. Perkar, anticipating that possibility, stepped with his back leg and drove his left hand into his opponent’s midsection. It was like punching stiff leather, though Ngangata responded with a whoof. The grip on Perkar’s wrist was strong—very strong—and Perkar realized to his dismay that he had badly underestimated the strength of the little man. He twisted free but resumed his attack instantly. As when he confronted the Wild God, the fear in his belly was gone, a hard anger surfacing.
Ngangata slapped his punch aside and, like a sudden stroke of lightning, launched his own attack; his fist darted out, so terribly fast that Perkar barely had time to blink before a stinging slap reddened his face. Perkar countered with a wild swing that lost him his balance but landed solidly on Ngangata’s chest; the sound was as if he had punched a drum. Perkar’s little anger was suddenly a storm. Ngangata was playing with him; he had opened the club of his fist into a mere slap; the attack that should have sent him to the cave floor spitting out teeth had only come as a reprimand. Twice the halfling had made him look foolish. Two times too many.
He followed the punch to the chest with another to the chin, and Ngangata’s head snapped back, away from the blow, inhumanly fast. It must have looked like it hurt—the flagging enthusiasm of his friends’ cheers picked up again—but he knew that his fist had really only barely connected.
The next blow was solid, though, and this time Ngangata really staggered. Perkar drew back to hit him again. His opponent looked at him enigmatically, and then—bizarrely—he smiled, a mocking, contemptuous smile. Perkar hit that smile dead center, and Ngangata fell, teeth smeared with his own blood. Slowly the half man picked himself back up. Perkar hit him again, and again he went down. Ngangata struggled to regain his feet once more, paused to gather strength, swaying on his knees.
“Stop. Stop this, I demand it!” The Kapaka pushed roughly between the two men. “Stop it. Ngangata is here under my protection, Perkar. If you strike him again, you must strike me.”
“It is a fair fight,” Apad protested. “They both agreed to it.”
“Enough. This expedition is under my charge, whatever any of you might think. My charge. I will not have you fighting amongst yourselves.”
Ngangata had regained his feet once more, though his legs were shaking visibly. One eye was already nearly swollen shut and his lip was bleeding copiously. His expression was completely unfathomable—puzzlement? scorn? Perkar did not know, but he suddenly felt silly, stupid even. Hitting a man who was not hitting him back. And now, the stupider he felt, the more angry he became.
“Why won’t you fight?” he breathed, so low that probably only Ngangata and the Kapaka could hear him.
Ngangata shook his head as if a child should know the answer to that question. Perkar turned away in disgust. His fist was beginning to ache, and he vaguely wondered if he had cracked any bones in his knuckles.
Apad and Eruka clapped him on the shoulder as he walked away, back toward the fire. The Alwal were still there, watching, impassive. Atti sat somewhat apart from them, and he did not meet Perkar’s gaze.
Perkar sat down, flicked his gaze angrily back toward Ngangata. The half man staggered out of the cave, out into the rain. Neither Atti nor any of the Alwal followed him.
III
The Light in the Labyrinth
Hezhi kicked back the embroidered coverlet and rolled across the bed to where the sheets were cooler. “Hot,” she explained to Qey, who looked down at her with sympathy. “Hot.”
Qey bent over, pressed a cool rag to her face. It was so cold as to be almost painful, and Hezhi winced away from it.
“I will send word to the library,” Qey said. “Tsem will take it. Ghan cannot expect you to work when you are so ill.”
“No,” Hezhi insisted. “No, I have to go. He will send soldiers again …”
“Ssh, little one.” Qey persevered with the rag, following her as she flinched from it. After a moment’s contact, it began to feel better. “He won’t,” she assured Hezhi. “If he does, they will see you are not well.”
Hezhi tried to protest once more, but Qey was right. She could not imagine standing up; her stomach lurched at the least motion, even on the bed. And she was so hot.
“Let me make you some tea,” Qey suggested. She left the rag with Hezhi, who sponged it across her own face.
“What’s wrong with me?” she wailed.
“It’s your first bleeding,” Qey replied. “It’s harder on some than others.”
Hezhi didn’t believe her. There was some deeper worry in Qey’s voice, and not a little fear. That, in turn, frightened Hezhi.
“Try to close your eyes, little one, get some rest. You hardly slept last night. Small wonder, with this and those horrible things that happened yesterday.”
“It was after me,” Hezhi mumbled. “Why was it after me?”
“Quiet, child. It was just a ghost. It wasn’t after anyone in particular. Get some sleep; I’ll make some warm tea to help you, to soothe your stomach.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” Hezhi groaned. “I don’t like my dreams.”
“They will fade,” Qey promised.
“No,” Hezhi said, but Qey had already gone to the next room. Hezhi wanted to explain that it wasn’t the dreams of the ghost she was afraid of; those were bad enough, seeing that poor soldier die again, split open from inside. But that dream she understood, at least. It was the strange dreams, the weird ones, that kept her awake. And it wasn’t what she saw in them; it was what they made her feel.
She heard Qey in the next room talking to Tsem, muffled noises she did not understand, heard the outside door open and then close again. After a while, Qey returned with a cup of tea. Hezhi managed to sit up enough to sip it. The tea was bitter, but good. It relaxed the terrible knots in her gut, made her feel a bit less nauseated.
“Hezhi,” Qey said as she drank the last of her tea. “Hezhi, I don’t want you to tell anyone that you began bleeding. Do you understand?”
“Why?” She was beginning to feel warm rather than hot, more comfortable. Perhaps she could go to the library after all.
“It would be for the best. You know how people are about such things.”
Hezhi nodded, not really understanding but unwilling to
argue about anything. Qey made to leave, but Hezhi grasped her hand. “Stay here with me,” she asked.
Qey hesitated. “I have to go start some bread,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”
“Let me come to the kitchen then.”
“You don’t have the strength, you just think you do. It’s the tea, little one.” Qey patted her hand. “I’ll be back soon.”
Hezhi closed her eyes—for a moment only—and listened to Qey’s footsteps recede. She really didn’t feel hot anymore, just a bit warm.
Hezhi was in a strange place. It seemed altogether too damp and green. Trees—trees the like of which she had never seen—surrounded her. They towered impossibly high, taller and thicker than even the largest cedar or olive tree, and they grew as profusely as wheat in a field. The sky above her was visible only as tiny blue slivers, the vast dome of it blotted from her sight by the vault of branches and leaves. Light glowed through the leaves, however, shone through them as if through paper so that she could see the delicate veins in those closest. She was reminded of the Hall of Moments, of the colored glass and the way it made the light play upon the marble floor. It was beautiful and a bit frightening because it was so alien; the smells were thick, pungent, unfamiliar. Worse was an awful awareness of something she had done wrong, some awful act she had committed. What have I done? She kept thinking, over and over.
She awoke with a start; she blinked her eyes, for the images of the trees seemed to cling to them like the grit that formed in their corners at night. She rolled over onto her back, angry. Qey had tricked her into sleeping.
She tried to concentrate on what the dreams might mean. Royally were said to live by dreams, to make them and understand them. But every dream she had ever heard of had to do with the River, with Nhol, with the Kingdoms. She had never even heard of a place with such large trees. Not in the desert, certainly, and not in the Swamp Kingdoms, though she had heard of thick stands of mangrove in the fens near the sea. But huge trees, like wooden castles …
When she got back to the library, she would steal a moment or two, when Ghan wasn’t watching. She knew where to find at least one geography.
Something caught the corner of her vision, a small movement. Curious, she rolled her head that way. It was her little ghost, the one she had begun thinking of as a scribe. She smiled at the faint curdling in the air.
“Do you know?” she asked him. “Do you know where such a land is to be found?”
She was faintly astonished when he moved closer; in the past he had approached her only when she was asleep or when she was studying some writing she had copied. Now he came close for no apparent cause, though he seemed indecisive, now approaching, now retreating. She watched in fascination as he did this little dance, tried to recall his face as she had seen it once, years ago. Despite his vacillation, he sidled nearer and nearer, until, like a child stealing something behind an adult’s back, a little appendage of distorted air resembling nothing so much as an arm reached out and touched her, down there, where she was bleeding. Outraged, she jerked away, but then paused, riveted by what happened.
The ghost was as a clear glass suddenly filled with dark wine. Color raced up the arm and poured into him, so that he was no longer a wavering in the air but a man, as sharp and distinct and real as any person she had ever seen. As distinct, in fact, as the monstrous ghost that had attacked her the day before. She shrieked, kicked away from him; from earliest childhood she knew the more solid-seeming a ghost was, the more power it had. The young man did not look powerful or terrible; he looked sad and rather frightened himself. He opened his mouth, as if trying to speak—and his color and form faded, became a wavery outline, vanished entirely.
Despite the fact that she was shaking with retreating fear, Hezhi bolted up to look at where he had been standing. There, on the floor, was a spattering of water, as if someone had spilled a small glass. One of the droplets held a spot of ruby red, expanding and fading to pink. It could only be a droplet of blood.
At that moment, Qey rushed into the room. “What is it?” she asked frantically.
Hezhi leaned back onto the mattress, studiously avoiding glancing at the damp place on the floor.
“Nothing,” she told Qey. “Just a bad dream.”
The next day, she felt better and returned to the library. Ghan signaled her to halt as she walked in, and she did so, waiting impatiently near his desk. After ignoring her for a few moments, Ghan looked up from his writing board and nodded.
“Sit down,” he said. Surprised, she did as he commanded, sat down on her calves with her dress tucked under. Ghan regarded her severely for a moment, then handed her a sheaf of paper and a thread-bound book. Next he shoved dry ink, a mixing stone, a little jar of water, and a pen across the desk.
“Copy the glyphs on the first seven pages,” he said. “Memorize them. This evening I will test you, and I expect you to know them all. Do you understand?”
“I …” Hezhi began, but Ghan cut her off.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone as insincere as his sudden smile. “That was really a rhetorical question. You do understand, and if you don’t, I will know by this afternoon, won’t I?” He returned his scrutiny to whatever it was he was working on. “You may use the table across the room,” he concluded, not looking back up.
Puzzled, Hezhi retreated to the table with the things he had given her, but as she opened the book, a sudden elation swept her confusion out the door and away. Ghan was teaching her to read the old script! And to write it.
Excited, she bent to the task. Many of the characters were already familiar to her, but she copied them anyway. Still, it was daunting how many she didn’t know; she wondered how she could possibly memorize them in such a short time. She wrote them carefully, repeating the names written to the sides of the glyphs in the modern syllabary. It was a bit frustrating; she could never quite draw them the way they were pictured. The ones in the book were elegant, flowing. Hers looked like little blobs of ink.
She blinked owlishly when she suddenly realized that Ghan was standing over her. Was it time already? She had scarcely noticed.
Ghan regarded her attempts at writing without comment, while Hezhi sat nervously, fingering the hem of her skirt. She knew he wouldn’t be pleased—Ghan was never pleased with anything she did—but she hoped he would not be too displeased.
Finally he nodded and sat down across the table from her.
“Draw me sungulh,” he said. Her heart sank. She could draw it—it was one of the easiest. But she was not so certain she could do them all. She had hoped he would point to them in the book and she would name them—but that was stupid, because they had their names written, right there, in the syllabary. Carefully, she traced out the open oval that meant “pot”; sungulh in the ancient tongue, shengun in the modern. He continued asking her the glyphs, and with each one she drew she became more and more uncertain. Her earlier happiness was beginning to evaporate; she suspected that for Ghan, this was merely another chance to humiliate her into quitting the library altogether. Yet she couldn’t, especially now, when she had so many questions. Her quest had begun as one of several ways of finding D’en, but without ever finding the answer to that first question, she had inexorably been drawn into more and more questions. And she felt the answers were there, if she only knew how and where to look.
“Now draw jwegh,” Ghan demanded. She merely stared at her paper, unable to remember that one at all.
“Well?” Ghan asked, after what seemed an eternity.
“May I speak?” she whispered.
“Go on.”
“I’m sorry, Ghan. I tried—I really tried—but I couldn’t remember them all.” She kept her eyes averted; she knew Ghan hated for her to look at him.
Ghan sighed, gazed slowly around the library. Save for themselves it was empty. Hezhi silently braced herself.
“Nobody could,” he said.
She gaped at him.
“Close your mouth and
listen,” Ghan admonished as he leaned across the table toward her. “What I meant to say is that no one could learn this script the way you have been doing it. Frankly, I’m astonished that you read as well as you do.” He shook his head. “Digression after digression,” he complained. “To teach you to index I must teach you to read. To teach you to read, I must teach you to learn.” He straightened. “But you will not slip out of our bargain by being ignorant,” he snapped. He took up the pen and handed it to her.
“Write sungulh again,” he commanded.
Hezhi complied, more confused than ever. Sungulh was easy because it was the old word for shengun, or “pot.” It looked like a pot, almost—oval, not closed at the top.
“Fine,” said Ghan. “Now write qwen.”
Hezhi knew that one, too. It meant “fire” and was also very simple: a curvy line going up and down, two other lines sprouting from its base and going off to the sides, at angles. Like the glyph for “pot,” it looked something like what it meant.
“Now wad,” Ghan continued. Hezhi marveled at how uncharacteristically patient he seemed to be, yet still felt fortunate that she knew this one, too. It meant “cook”; she had scribbled it on the doorway to the kitchen one day. Halfway through drawing it, she stopped, amazed.
“I … I never noticed that,” she breathed.
“Noticed what?” Ghan demanded.
“Wad is made out of qwen and sungulh.” It was, though the simpler characters were distorted; the oval of the “pot” was quashed way down, but now she could see that it was indeed sungulh. Qwen—the three wavy lines joined at the base—was quashed, too, and the center, straight line stuck right up through the middle of the pot. “Fire and a pot. Cooking!”
Ghan cleared his throat. “Ngess’e’,” he demanded.
“I … I don’t remember that one,” Hezhi confessed.
“Look it up.”
Hezhi did; this time, she understood from the start what she was copying; the glyph was made of “pot” again, this time combined with the symbol for “person.” It took her a moment to understand.
