by Greg Keyes
“I can see your sword,” he remarked instead. “If it weren’t for that, I might almost doubt your story.”
“What does it look like?” Perkar asked curiously, his anger diffused, cooling.
“Well, I see the two of you together. You’re tied up somehow. But together you look like a bird. An eagle, I think.”
“The sword’s name is Harka,” Perkar confirmed. “That means Eagle.”
“Of course,” the old man answered. Nearby, Ngangata stirred in his sleep.
“Your friend is badly hurt,” Brother Horse apprised him. “If he continues with you, he will die.”
“Yes, I know that,” Perkar responded. “That is why I want to leave him with you. Can you see what would happen if I leave him?”
Brother Horse nodded. “Yes. I see him getting stronger, I see you weakening. He is the last, the last of your companions, is he not? The last thing tying you to your homeland and the strength you draw from it.”
“I tell you the truth, Grandfather,” Perkar whispered. “At first I hated this man. I feared him, and I hate what I fear. I have come to hate myself, because I fear the things I have done. But Ngangata has given me one present after another, even when I couldn’t recognize them. He does not deserve to die for me, and I don’t deserve to die with him—in such good company.” He let his gaze drift over to the fire, which seemed pale and sad without a goddess dancing in it. “Brother Horse, will you watch him? When he is stronger, I know he will repay the debt.”
Brother Horse reached down and scratched his dog behind the ear and sighed. “If Heen doesn’t mind, I won’t object,” he said.
“Thank you,” Perkar replied.
“There’s some dried meat in the house. Take some of that. And listen,” he said, leaning a bit closer. “If you meet any of my people, tell them I said to let you be. Tell them the old man on the island, who was once Yushnene, who was once Gaan, told them to take care of you.”
“That’s very kind,” Perkar replied, by way of thanks.
“Oh, well,” Brother Horse said. “It won’t cost me anything; I’ll be here with this man fetching and serving.” He paused, and his eyes twinkled. “Too bad you couldn’t have had a sick woman with you. But nothing’s perfect.” He took a drink of tea and then cocked his head to the side. “Listen,” he said. “I remembered something else about the River.”
“Yes?” Perkar answered.
“You remember that we were talking about him being awake?”
“Yes.”
“There is an old song, a legend. I remember that it says one day the River will come fully awake, find two feet to walk on.”
“What does that mean?”
Brother Horse shrugged. “Bad things. Maybe the end of the world. It is an old song, and I don’t remember much of it.”
Later that night, after Brother Horse had finally faded into sleep, Perkar went back to the shore, dragged the boat into the water, and let the current take him on. For the first time in clear memory he felt alive, ready to face the future. Not happy, not content—but at least no longer numb. For thirty days or more, with every fingerspan of water they had crossed he had been resisting, as surely and as stupidly as a man paddling against a current far too strong to fight. Karak’s boat had learned its lesson immediately. He had not, and the struggle had worn him out. Yet it was not too late for him to absorb this truth. If he had to meet fate, best not do it trying to retreat, back turned, weary to the bone. Better to meet it flying on the balls of his feet, sword drawn.
“I wonder who will bear you next, Harka?” he remarked, with more irony than resignation.
IV
Transformations
“Have you ever seen such a wonderful story?” Wezh exclaimed, his fingers fluttering enthusiastically. “The way he arrived just as the pirates were going to kill her! And such swordplay! That man should be the head of the imperial guard!”
“That would be fine,” Hezhi replied, “if he actually existed.”
Wezh blinked at her uncomprehendingly, then blew a little shower of spit from his mouth as he suddenly laughed. “You are so witty, Princess,” he howled, dabbing at his eyes. “Of course I meant the actor who portrayed Ts’ih. The way he handled that sword. Did you enjoy it? Were you inspired?”
“I was,” she agreed, though she reflected that what the drama had inspired in her was almost certainly not what it had evoked in Wezh.
“Well,” Wezh said, still visibly recovering from mirth, “I wonder where we should walk tonight? The Forest Courtyard is said to be lovely this time of year.”
“I was actually feeling a bit tired,” she told him, again not lying.
“Nonsense. A breath of fresh air will restore your recalcitrance!”
Hezhi went back over Wezh’s last sentence in her mind, trying—as she often found herself doing—to imagine what word the young noble meant to use. It didn’t really matter though; it was clear that he was insisting on at least a short walk together. She was preparing to reinforce her stated lack of interest in such a stroll when she caught Qa Lung’s expression. She hadn’t realized that Wezh’s bodyguard was near enough to hear her.
Qa Lung made her uncomfortable. Not a slave like Tsem, Qa Lung was actually a member of the Yehd Nu Clan—Wezh’s uncle, in fact. As such he had full power to oversee a courtship and offer the terms of marriage. He was also, she knew, one of the small herd of sycophants who had her father’s ear, and worse still, he had connections with the priesthood. She felt certain that he was carefully watching her every move, and that many ears would hear what he observed. So rather than loosing the rather pungent reply she had been forming to give Wezh, she smiled sweetly, if a bit painfully, and said, “The Forest Courtyard sounds wonderful.” From the corner of her eye she caught her chaperon—Tsem, naturally—suppressing a grin.
A number of the other drama-goers also had a notion to visit the Forest Courtyard. She noted that the vast majority of them were young couples and their chaperons. The balance seemed to be married women without their husbands. These latter were clustered together, discussing the relative merits of the drama and cooing a bit over the protagonist. Their enthusiasm was no doubt heightened by nende’ng, the intoxicating black snuff currently in favor with the court. Their overhappy, glazed expressions and the black stains around their mouths and noses testified amply to that.
The Forest Courtyard was one of the largest, so called because of the eighteen trees that were planted in it and the numerous shrubs, all carefully sculpted to appear wild. It was deemed one of the more romantic spots for courting and for extramarital affairs because it was designed with privacy in mind; the shrubs and screens of climbing plants created numerous small alcoves. Couples ahead of them slipped off into the “private” places, their bodyguards lagging discreetly behind. This and a bit of prescience inspired in her a distinct drowning sensation, sinking and out of breath all at once. When, as she feared, Wezh took her hand and guided her toward one of the grottoes, she shot Tsem a silent appeal. He shrugged slightly as if to ask “What can I do?”
“Alone at last,” Wezh said smartly. He hadn’t thought of that himself—it was a quote from the drama, probably supposed to evoke in her the same tender feelings it had in the play’s heroine. Instead, she wondered how Wezh would react if she were to become ill. Oblivious to her growing dismay, Wezh led her to a little stone bench. She craned her neck; Tsem was no longer visible to her.
Wezh had undergone a disquieting transformation since they had been seeing one another. His shy, tentative nature had slipped aside, and behind it lurked an arrogant self-confidence. Whenever they went anywhere, he made a great show of being with her, the Chakunge’s daughter. He liked to be noticed. Worse, he believed that he knew her feelings, sensed what she wanted, because, he bragged, he “understood women.” Asking her what she wanted never seemed to enter into this understanding of his, and indeed, he seemed to believe that doing that would be cheating. Ts’ih, the dashing pirate, would of course
never have to ask; he would know. The only thing that ever dented Wezh’s impervious armor of self-delusion was any visible show of anger on Hezhi’s part. While he clearly had no recollection of whatever it was she had done to him that time, there was some distant corner of his mind that recognized danger when it was very near. Unfortunately, she was afraid to show her anger; Qa Lung would see it, see its effect on Wezh, and then he might wonder—wonder and talk.
Therefore, when Wezh leaned over and kissed her—on the mouth—she let him. It was peculiar, she thought, that people made so much of kissing. When Wezh kissed her, it felt as if someone were pressing wet liver against her lips—except that liver tasted better. Qey said that one got used to it, but she felt that it was all she could do not to pull away from him. She reminded herself that it was, after all, only the second time Wezh had kissed her. Perhaps it would get better.
He moved his attentions from her lips to her neck, and now it felt as if the wet liver were being sponged on her there. This was actually more pleasant than the lip kiss—it tickled a bit, and that wasn’t bad—but it also meant that Wezh’s head with its stink of half-rancid olive oil was right under her nose. She sighed in resignation.
Wezh, of course, took the sigh for one of passion and, thus emboldened, moved his hand up her thigh, toward the juncture of her legs. That was quite enough for her, Qa Lung or no Qa Lung. She reached down and firmly removed Wezh’s hand from her body.
“Don’t be frightened,” Wezh soothed. “You’ll like it, you’ll see.”
Hezhi disengaged herself entirely, slid toward the nether end of the bench. “I am Hezhi Yehd Cha’dune,” she hissed fiercely, “and I know what I do and do not like.”
“No you don’t,” Wezh assured her. “You know only books and old paper. You have never been awakened by the caress of a man.”
She felt certain that he was quoting most of that, as well, though she didn’t know from where. She fixed him with an angry stare. “I wish to return to my rooms now. The afternoon has been a lovely one.” Now she was quoting—the lines of the heroine to an unwanted suitor, the villain of the piece.
Wezh nearly purpled. “You little snake,” he growled. “You let me bring you here.”
That was so outrageous, she had no reply at all. She merely stood up and narrowed her eyes.
“Sit back down,” Wezh said in a reasonable tone.
“If you don’t take me home now,” Hezhi said, firmly and evenly, “you will never see me again save at my wedding to someone else. Further, I will embarrass you right here, right now, in the Forest Courtyard. If you wish to leave this place with any dignity, you will do so now, and no one will know what happened or didn’t happen back here. You can say whatever you wish. But you will not touch me in that manner.”
Wezh actually grinned at that, and, too late, Hezhi realized that her little speech must resemble yet some other drama, for Wezh suddenly grabbed at her. “You resist,” he said dramatically, “yet in your eyes I see submission!”
Wezh was much stronger than he looked. Hezhi could not break the grip on her arm, and then he was holding her, grappling her, forcing her down. She found herself suddenly out of breath, heart pounding with fear. He was strong! As Wezh pushed her down onto the bench, he let one of his hands free to grope at her barely existent breast. Hezhi’s hand, given a life of its own by sheer panic, shot out as if to embrace him and snatched a full firm handful of his oiled hair. She wrenched at it, and Wezh’s head snapped back up, a look of utter surprise mingled with pain distorting his features.
“That hurts!” He groaned.
She yanked harder; he brought both hands up in an attempt to disengage her fingers, but at that moment she felt a sudden surge of strength from the place inside of her. Still jerking his hair, she wriggled out from beneath him.
“Let go!” Wezh all but shrieked.
“I want to go to my rooms,” Hezhi hissed into his ear, keeping his head pulled back as he swung his balled fists ineffectually back at her. He twisted wildly, gathered his own feet under him, and lifted his fist again, preparing a more accurate jab. She let go of his hair and stepped back. Wezh lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, crawled back up with murder in his eyes.
For a moment, she thought he would hit her, but then his hands dropped, fingers uncurling.
“I don’t hit women,” he sneered.
She felt herself trembling, whether from fear or fury it was difficult to tell. “Why not?” she snapped. “You seem perfectly willing to wrestle them.”
Wezh brushed at his clothes. “I’m going to forget this happened,” he said, then added sulkily, “You don’t appreciate romance at all.”
“Just take me home,” she demanded, voice dripping with as much venom as she could manage—which was quite a bit.
“With pleasure.”
The return to her rooms took place in utter, sullen silence. She caught Qa Lung eyeing her, but Tsem had noticed her mussed clothes and angry expression, too. He placed himself at her side, rather than walking behind, a clear message to all that, for the night at least, courting was over.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” Hezhi asked Qey, when she was safely back in her rooms.
“No, little one,” Qey assured her, placing Hezhi’s gown, neatly folded, before her. “You mustn’t think that all men are like that.”
“I see no reason to doubt it,” Hezhi returned, her lips tight.
“Things will seem better, later on. One day you will laugh about this, tell your girlfriends at court.”
Hezhi glowered back at Qey. “I doubt this will ever seem funny to me, even if my face is smeared with nende’ng. He attacked me, Qey.”
“I’m sure he didn’t see it that way,” Qey responded carefully.
“That makes it worse,” she snapped. “How can someone not know he is attacking you? Must I be courted by men who don’t even know the difference between romance and fighting!”
“Ssh, little one. No one is to say you must marry Wezh. Soon you will have many suitors. Some are reluctant now because you haven’t ascended yet. Wezh is merely the most eager, trying to gain an advantage by courting you before you are certain to join the court. When you go up the Hall of Moments, suitors will follow you like the train of your dress. Many of them will respect you, will understand your wishes.”
“Many will be like Wezh, and I won’t know it until after they attack me. How much of that must I endure? He frightened me, Qey, and I have seen things that should make him seem silly, unable to frighten a child …” She trailed off, suddenly realizing that Qey was looking at her worriedly. What did Qey suspect?
When she stopped, Qey regarded her for a moment, then took her hand.
“It isn’t easy to believe this,” she said at last, “but I was young once, too, and not even a princess. This seems very difficult now, I know. But it will get better, if you endure. One day, believe it or not, a man will put his hand on your leg and you won’t want him to move it. You will want him to hold you and kiss you.”
“He didn’t hold me,” Hezhi said softly. “He grabbed me. Isn’t there a difference?”
“Usually.” Qey sighed. “Usually.”
Sleep came with some difficulty. She kept reliving the evening’s experience over and over in her head, thinking of all the things she should have done. She had felt the thing in her—the River part of her. She could have struck at him, just as she had done before, and yet she felt instinctively that using that power was very dangerous right now. Even so, without her even asking, it had made her stronger, filled her arm with enough might to best Wezh; the muscles still tingled, even itched a bit. Actually, that arm had been itching for a few days, now that she thought of it.
Over and over, she reviewed the scene, her anger staying alive and keeping her awake. Finally, deep in the night, an odd thought struck her. She imagined the situation again, but this time, in place of Wezh, she imagined that Yen was her suitor. A ridiculous thought—he was much too far beneath he
r station. And yet, when she imagined the scene with Yen, it came out differently, somehow. When he placed his hand on her leg, she stopped him, as well. But Yen just smiled kindly, his offending hand gripping hers briefly, and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Then the two of them rose and walked, hand in hand, back to her apartments where he bid her good night.
She ran it through her head like that a few times and finally drifted off to sleep.
She awoke to a gray dawn, just drizzling in from the courtyard. Something had awakened her, something annoying, but it took a moment for the sleep-fog to lift from her senses enough to localize it. It was her arm, itching furiously. Sleepy and annoyed, she reached to scratch it. That felt better, in the way that scratching does. In the same way, when she stopped, it itched more than before. Grunting, she scratched even harder.
Her nail caught on something, like the edge of a scab. Picking at it again, she wondered when she had injured her arm. Had Wezh wounded her? Curious, she stood up. The apartments were quite silent, and cloaked in that stillness she padded effortlessly out into the courtyard. The sky was slate, with a promise of coral just appearing eastward. A little mouse, surprised at her early entry into its night domain, scuttled into the patch of sage. A cool wind paused in its flight above the palace, just long enough to drop into the courtyard, swirl about her once, and set back on his way.
There, in early light, her life changed once again. No scab on her arm, no injury, no rash. Instead, just above the crook of her elbow, tiny but perfectly formed, grew a scale. Blue, with a hint of iridescence.
V
The Bit Slips
Days began to matter again. Perkar first noticed it a short time after he left Ngangata. Impatience was the root of it. It wasn’t so much that he cared about days themselves, but that there seemed to be too many of them, too many between him and his destiny. He began marking them, each passing sun a score in the tough wood of the boat.
