by Greg Keyes
It was the dead man. Qan Yazhwu, son of Wenli, the netmaker—images flickered in Ghe’s mind: childhood, a woman, the first terrified moment when learning to swim …
Shuddering, he thrust it away, and the voice was gone. The ghost-seed tumbled away from him and then once again chose a direction, floating purposefully down the hall. When it met with a wall it passed on through it effortlessly. Ghe understood where it was going. Downstream, to the River.
“Farewell, Qan Yazhwunata,” he whispered, and then turned back to the body, considering its disposal.
VII
Surrounded by Monsters
Hezhi leaned against the wind-smoothed stone, steadied herself, and caught her breath. Already the terror of what she had seen was fading, but the strangeness of it remained, the shock. Brother Horse had seemed to her, in the short time she had known him, the most Human of creatures: earthy, affectionate, and easygoing. He had comforted her from the first, from the moment they met, lifting her onto his horse, wrapping her tight in his arms as they thundered away from Nhol, from her birthplace and her doom.
But he was most certainly not Human, or at least not completely so. Human Beings did not have creatures living inside of them.
At least, she did not think they did.
“I can’t trust anyone,” she said aloud. “Only Tsem.”
And perhaps Perkar. It was odd, that thought. She had known Perkar for no more than a day longer than she had known Brother Horse, and she hid seen the ugliness he was capable of, the slaughtered bodies of her father’s elite guard, the decapitation of Yen. But Perkar and she were twisted together in some way, braided by their own desires—not for each other, perhaps, but bonded in some inextricable fashion. It was not love—she loved Tsem, she loved Ghan, loved Qey. What bound her and Perkar was not that, nor was it the awkward, restless desire that Yen had inspired. It was something less compelling but more powerful.
But that was her belly talking. Her brain was learning to trust itself, and it told her that even Perkar was not to be counted on.
The cliffs behind her soared as high as three-story buildings and were often as sheer as city walls. She had regarded them from afar, from the village, and they had seemed mysterious, intriguing. Like a city, yet not a city. Spires, walls, caverns like halls—she had imagined them all. Crinkling her brow, rebellious, she strode back into them, following a crooked canyon floor, trying not to think about the things in Brother Horse, the god of the cairn, about gods and demons everywhere.
She was suddenly struck by an odd memory. The stone rising about her seemed to form a vast hall, and save for the lack of buttresses and a real ceiling, she was suddenly, powerfully reminded of the Leng Court, where her father often held ceremonies and audiences. When last she had been in the court she had seen a drama, a representation of the legend of her family. It told of the People, surrounded on all sides by monsters, unable to save themselves, and of how Chakunge, the son of Gau—a chieftain’s daughter—and the River destroyed them all.
Surrounded by monsters: that was what the Mang were, surrounded by monsters, in every stone—maybe more than surrounded, maybe even penetrated, if all were like Brother Horse. In Nhol, the River had changed that, at least, killed these things that infested the land the way termites infested wood or maggots old meat. Maybe that was what these cliffs were, a place where these “gods” had burrowed, like insects, through the land, tried in some crude fashion to form a city comparable to Nhol.
It dawned on her that her people might not have been all that different from the Mang at one time. The girl in the story, Gau: she had been the daughter of a “chieftain”—a very old word, one not used anymore except to refer to the leaders of barbarian tribes. But Hezhi’s own people had once had chieftains, very long ago. Before becoming a part of the River, before escaping from these visions …
The wind hummed and shuddered through the stone corridors, and Hezhi felt fright creeping back upon her. What if her “godsight” came now, and she saw whatever thing made that noise? What if the cliffs suddenly came alive around her?
They could most easily enter her through her eyes, Brother Horse claimed. Despairing, she sank down to her knees, then sat, shut her eyes, and imagined a cool breeze across rooftops, Qey in the kitchen, fussing over an evening meal of braised chicken with garlic, black rice, and fish dumplings.
In Nhol she had learned to fear darkness; now she found solace in it.
I wish Perkar were here, she thought, clenching and unclenching fistfuls of the grainy sand. There was no snow here, though she had noticed drifts piled against the south canyon wall. Still, it was cold. It would get colder at night Where would she go? Back to the camp, where Brother Horse and those creatures in him waited? Where everyone was a relative of the old man and no one trusted her at all?
Yes, she needed Perkar.
As she thought this a second time she suddenly realized what she was doing and snarled in sudden self-fury. Perkar was right not to trust her! Once she had called him from across the world, from his home and family, and for what? So that he could slaughter men in the streets of Nhol that she might escape her destiny. And now, here she was, in the midst of that new destiny he had sacrificed so much to help her create, and she was wishing for him to come save her again, to bring his bloody blade and make carrion of her problems.
No, not again. This time she would make her own way.
But what did that mean? Could she survive here, in the Mang Wastes, without the Mang or Perkar?
No, she could not.
Could she face Brother Horse again? She didn’t know if she could do that, either.
Abruptly she realized that she might no longer have a choice. New sounds intruded upon the slow, terrible melodies of wind through stone. The muffled rhythm of hoofbeats, tinkle of brass bells, and human voices moving nearer with each moment. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and glanced quickly around. What would she do if it was Brother Horse? He must know that she had seen him. Had he intended that?
Well, she would face him. If she died, she died. She would not die weeping or cowering. She was Hezhi, daughter of the emperor of Nhol, once possessed of enough power to make the world quake beneath her feet. It would take more than an old man possessed by demons to make her cringe.
Still, she trembled a bit as she stood to face the hoofbeats.
Two horsemen had entered the canyon. Neither was Brother Horse. They were Mang, clothed in bachgay—long black coats split for riding—and flaring elkskin breeks. Rigid bands of lacquered armor showed beneath their coats. Both bore bows. It was plain, even to her, that they were following her tracks—and that they now saw her.
As they drew closer, she realized that she did not recognize them; they were not of Brother Horse’s band. This was no surprise—since the Ben’cheen had begun, there were more strange faces than familiar ones. What was more disturbing was that these men also wore steel caps with plumes of red-dyed horsehair, and she remembered hearing that this signified being at war. She glanced around, wondering where she might hide, but there was nowhere; the cliffs were too sheer to scale—at least for her to scale—and there were no obvious caves or crevasses to crawl into. She could only watch them come, alert for any sign of their intentions on their faces.
When they drew nearer, they unstrung their bows, returned them to ornately embroidered sheaths. They paused in doing this, and though one might take his eyes from her, the other was always watching, as if she were a snake or some other dangerous thing.
Done disarming, they urged their mounts closer to where she stood, and she, not certain how to respond, merely watched them come.
“Du’unuzho, shigiindeye?” one asked softly. “Are you all right, cousin?” His accent was strange, not like that of Brother Horse, though she could still understand him. Up close, his face was not as fierce as it appeared from a distance; lean and narrow, it tapered pleasantly. His eyes were not black, as were her own or those of the other Mang she knew, but a light brown, flecked faintly with g
reen. He was quite young, perhaps no more than fifteen. His companion looked the same age, though more thickly built, his face and eyes more typically Mang.
“Gaashuzho,” she answered. “I will be.”
He nodded, but his face registered the strangeness of her accent. He cast his eyes down for a moment, as if considering how to say what he wanted to say.
“You are not Mang,” he settled upon at last.
“No,” she answered. “No, I am not. But I am in the care of the South People.” Brother Horse had told her to explain that to any strangers she met.
“It is she,” the second rider hissed, but the first held up his hand to silence him.
“My cousins call me Moss, for my eyes,” he explained. “My war name is Strums the Bow. You may call me Moss, if you please. My cousin’s name is Chuuzek.”
“Hey!” Chuuzek grumbled, and Hezhi wondered if he was upset because his name had been given to a stranger or if it was because the name Moss gave meant “He-Continually-Goes-About-Belching.”
“My name is Hezhi,” she replied, knowing it was polite to give a name when one was offered. “Have you come here for the Ben’cheen?”
“Partly,” Moss told her. “We are of the Four Spruces People.” He said that as if it should be significant, and Hezhi was sure that it probably was, to other Mang. It meant nothing to her, but she nodded as if it did. Moss regarded her impassively, then cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “I would like to offer you a ride back to the village. It is a long walk from here.”
“No, thank you,” Hezhi replied. “I have a companion I shall rejoin shortly.”
“Ah,” Moss replied. Chuuzek looked around the canyon at that, expressing either disbelief or wariness. He grunted something under his breath.
Something isn’t right, Hezhi realized. These two were acting oddly, even by Mang standards. It could be because she was not Mang, but there was Chuuzek’s blurted “It is she.” That worried her immensely, and she wished now that they would go away. Moss seemed pleasant enough, concerned even, but then so had Yen, and he had been prepared to kill her.
“I think,” Moss said apologetically, “that I should insist. It is not meet that we leave you here, wandering about in the cliffs. Your companion is Mang?”
“He is.”
“Then he will find his way home easily enough.”
“He will wonder what became of me.”
Chuuzek snorted. “If he is Mang, he will read the signs well enough.”
Hezhi frowned up at them. She could see the hilts of their swords clearly, protruding from sheaths laced to their saddles. Chuuzek had his hand upon his, but Moss’ were folded loosely, casually, at the base of his horse’s neck.
“You wear war tassels,” she said. “I can’t know what your intentions are.”
“It is true,” Moss said. “We are at war. Not with you. But I might take you captive, if that is the only way you will allow me to return you to the village.”
“I still prefer to decline.”
Chuuzek snarled; Hezhi could see that he was genuinely angry. Moss merely looked uncomfortable.
“I would rather have your permission,” he began, but at that moment he was interrupted by the sound of another horse approaching.
Hezhi looked beyond them to the new arrival, saw that it was Brother Horse, mounted, Heen trotting a hundred paces or so behind. For just a moment it all seemed far too much. The stranger she knew or the stranger she did not know?
Surrounded by monsters.
She would watch them. She would pretend that she did not care what happened to her. That was simple enough.
“Well, hello,” Brother Horse bellowed as he drew nearer. “How are my nephews from the Four Spruces Clan?”
Moss turned in his saddle and then dismounted, a sign of great respect. Chuuzek dismounted, also, with some hesitation, muttering under his breath.
“We are well enough, Grandfather,” Moss replied. “Only trying to convince this little thrush that the snow and open sky are no place for her with sundown approaching.”
Brother Horse smiled broadly. “My little niece is a hardheaded thrush,” he explained, his eyes focused on Hezhi rather than on the two warriors. “I appreciate the concern, however.”
Hezhi shivered. Brother Horse seemed so normal. Suddenly she doubted what she had seen; perhaps the monsters within him were merely some illusion created by the Fire Goddess, by the unevenness of her own vision. Once again, she did not know enough. But if, inside, Brother Horse was really a demon, what hope did she have?
Her only hope lay with herself. Not with Perkar, not with Tsem, not with the River. She did not need a butcher or a giant. She strained, for the first time trying to will the godsight to happen, to force a vision of the old man.
His form did not waver; he remained as he seemed.
Brother Horse leaned in his saddle and the leather creaked loudly within the red walls of stone around them. “Hezhi,” he said. “Will you return with us now? It’s too cold for an old man to be out searching for his niece.”
“Leave her to us, then,” Chuuzek grumbled, but he kept his eyes firmly on the ground, not willing to challenge the old man directly.
“No,” Brother Horse said. “My niece is shy around strangers. She is not very trusting.”
Was there more than common emphasis on the last word? Was he accusing her?
But why should she trust him?
“I am cold,” she said rather shortly. “I would like to get back to Tsem now.”
“Climb up behind me, then.” Brother Horse grunted.
“She may share my horse,” Moss offered. “I would consider it an honor.”
Of course you would, Hezhi fumed. What do you want of me? To kill me, as Yen did? My skin, to hang in your yekt? Or merely sex, like Wezh? She was unable to avert her eyes quickly enough to avoid shooting him a poisonous glance; she saw the venom mirror against his eyes, saw what appeared to be dismay.
Be hurt, Hezhi retorted in her mind. But you want something. You may be smart enough to hide it, but your cousin is not.
“No, best she ride with me,” Brother Horse said good-naturedly. But there was a certainty in the way he said it, a gentle termination of the debate.
“Very well,” Moss replied, his voice betraying no ill feelings. “I only offered.”
“And I only refused you,” Hezhi replied, using the polite “you” to soften her words. To imply that at another time, under other circumstances, she might not refuse. Though she would, of course.
Climbing up behind Brother Horse, she felt more comfortable almost instantly. Safe from whatever unknown threat the young warriors represented. The feeling was so much against her will—she wanted to stay wary, alert, and angry—that she wondered if it might not be some form of enchantment. Brother Horse was, after all, a gaan, and she knew nothing of the powers he might wield. Still, nothing seemed amiss or odd about the old man. To the contrary, he was just as he had always been.
They rode back to the Ben’cheen all in a clump. The sun was westering, but not, as Moss had implied, particularly near setting. Hezhi kept her head pressed against Brother Horse’s coat, thinking that perhaps she would hear a growl or some other strange sound from within his body. She did not, and so instead she focused on the conversation, idly noting the slight differences in their speech.
“Is it odd that you go about with your helmets so?” Brother Horse asked after a moment.
“It would be odd if we were not at war,” Moss replied softly, after a considered pause. “As things stand, it is not odd at all.”
“I see. And who are my western relatives at war with?”
“The Mang,” Moss corrected, “are at war with the Cattle People.”
Hezhi felt the muscles of Brother Horse’s back tighten.
“War? Not just raiding?” His voice sounded casual, but the tension Hezhi sensed remained. “Why have I not heard of this?”
“News travels slowly on the plains in w
inter. That is why Chuuzek and I have come; we bring the news that our people will not be at the Ben’cheen this year.”
“Tell me more of this,” Brother Horse demanded. He kept his horse carefully at a walk, and the younger men were obliged to maintain the same pace, though the colorful cluster of tents was visible in the distance, the sounds of celebration already audible.
Chuuzek spit over his left shoulder. “They have invaded our upland grazing lands, built fortresses to defend them. They sent men to ask for them first—very polite.”
“You told them no.”
“We sent their heads back. It is our pasture.”
Brother Horse sighed. “That is true,” he allowed. “It belongs to the western bands.”
It was only then that Hezhi understood, that she remembered who the “Cattle People” were: Perkar’s people.
“Oh, no,” she muttered.
It was a small exclamation, not intended to be overheard, but Moss caught it, favored her with brief but intense scrutiny.
“Where is your niece from?” Moss asked quietly.
Hezhi understood, of course, that Moss did not for a moment believe that she was Brother Horse’s niece. Though her appearance more resembled the Mang than it did Perkar’s strange folk, there were still quite noticeable differences. And Moss had heard her speak, could not help but know her Mang was recently learned. “Niece” was merely the polite way for an older man to speak of a younger woman—particularly one under his protection.
“She is from Nhol,” Brother Horse told him in a tone that made it clear that the question, though it had been answered, was not a welcome one. “And she is my niece in all but blood.” “Huh,” Chuuzek grunted, but Moss merely nodded acceptance.
“There are three more at my fire right now,” Brother Horse went on, “three more who also do not share the blood of the Horse Mother, who have no kin amongst the herds. But they are under my protection, as well. My clan and I would take it hard if anything should happen to them.”
He’s telling them about Tsem, Perkar and Ngangata, she thought.
