by Greg Keyes
But after a moment, Ghe left and strode back into the army of men and horses. He came like a titan, men moving deferentially from his path, and it was clear he came for Ghan. Ghan gathered his strength and awaited him.
“Hello, Ghan,” Ghe said when he arrived. “I see that you fared well enough on our journey.”
“Well enough.”
“Would you come with me?”
Ghan quirked a faint half smile. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Why, then, I will be more than happy to come.” He dusted the horse hair from his legs, and when he took his first steps they nearly wobbled from under him.
“Let me help you, there,” Ghe said, and took a firm—even painful—grip beneath his arm and began escorting him toward the fore of the party.
“I must admit, Ghan, I’ve been angry with you,” Ghe confided as they walked along. “Though that isn’t precisely why I have avoided you these past days.”
“Oh? Have you avoided me?”
Ghe tsked. “You betrayed me, Ghan, and betrayed Hezhi, too, though I’m sure you pigheadedly thought you were helping her. I have avoided you to save your life, however. Every time I look at you, I desire to empty your withered shell of its spirit. And yet I thought some use might still exist for you. And, as it proves out, there is.”
They were almost to the other leaders now, and Ghe slowed a bit—perhaps so that he would not appear to be dragging him. Ghan opened his mouth to ask Ghe what use he might have, but then they were there, the Mang chieftain watching him with bright eyes.
He was weary-looking, clad in the same manner as any of the Mang around him: long black coat, breeks. The only marked difference was that he wore no helmet. The most astonishing thing was his age; he couldn’t be more than sixteen.
“You are the one named Ghan,” he said in heavily accented but comprehensible Nholish.
“That is what I am called.”
“You and I have much to talk about, along with these others,” he said, indicating Ghe and the rest. “You may be happy to know that Hezhi is still alive and well.”
Ghan blinked as the words sorted into sense, and with comprehension came a flood of sudden emotion, cracking the levees which had so long held it in place.
“How do you know?” Ghan asked.
The chieftain tapped his chest. “I see her, in here. Not long ago I rode with her.” He placed his hand on Ghan’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am shaman and war prophet of the Four Spruces Clan, and also by the will of the River and heaven, the chieftain of the three northwestern bands.” He swept his hands to encompass all of the men and horses who stood dismounted in the valley, awaiting his command.
“But you, my friend, may call me Moss.”
XXX
The Roadmark
Perkar drew a sharp breath and stiffened when Harka suddenly hailed.
“What?”
“Fifteen men at least in the rocks ahead,” the weapon replied.
“Within earshot?” he whispered.
“Shouting, I would think.”
“Mang?”
“How should I know? I only know they haven’t certainly decided to attack you. They are waiting for someone or perhaps guarding something.”
Perkar noticed Hezhi staring at him. He flashed her a little smile.
“Just pretend we’re talking about something innocuous,” he said softly.
“I thought we were,” Hezhi answered, recalling the conversation Harka had interrupted, about the merits of red cattle as opposed to brown ones.
“There are warriors up ahead of us.”
“They weren’t there last night,” she assured him.
“Well, now they are. Ngangata, do you hear all of this?”
“Yes. I say we go back the way we came.”
“Too late for that,” Perkar said. “They surely know we’re here. When I give the word, all of you bolt for the cover of those trees. I don’t think we’re in line-of-sight for bows yet, anyway—”
“You aren’t going to fight them all by yourself,” Hezhi hissed.
Perkar smiled weakly and reached over to touch her hand. “I don’t intend to fight them at all, unless I have no choice. These are most likely my people, considering where we are. But in times of war, rash, unplanned things can happen. If they shoot too hastily at one of you, it might kill you. If they make the same mistake with me …”
He said this with confidence he certainly did not feel. They rode in a gorge so narrow that only the merest sliver of sky lay above them. Would he heal if a boulder were pushed onto him? What if his legs were broken by some snare and they simply hacked him to pieces?
“If they make the same mistake with me,” he went on, “the results won’t be as dire. If they attack me, you can all feel free to come to my aid, though some of you should stay back to protect Hezhi.”
“I’m not helpless,” she reminded him, not quite sharply but with considerable insistence.
Since their time alone on the peak five days before, the two of them had gotten along well. Very well, in fact. And so he answered that with a little smile, leaning close, so that only she could easily hear him. “Is that the only stupid thing I’ve said lately?”
“More or less,” she replied. “In the last few days, at least.”
“Then you should be proud of me.”
“Oh, I am. And be careful.”
He nodded assurance of that, then looked over his shoulder at the others in time to catch Ngangata rolling his eyes.
“What?” he called back at the half man.
“They could decide to come this way at any moment. You two had better save your courting for some other time.”
Perkar clamped his mouth on an indignant protest and dismounted. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he strode forward. The others clopped quickly into the trees.
Despite his efforts, he felt as if he were walking through quicksand. Only the gentle pressure of his friends’ surely watchful gazes kept the appearance of confidence and spring in his step.
Fifty paces he went before a rock clattered nearby. He slowed up.
“I’ve come to talk, not to fight,” he shouted.
A pause then, and he heard some whispering in the rocks above and to his right.
“Name yourself,” someone shouted—in his own language.
“I am Perkar of the Clan Barku,” he returned.
More scrambling then, and suddenly a stocky, auburn-haired man emerged from the fallen pile of rubble that leaned against the cliff face.
“Well, then, you’ve got some explaining to do, for you ought to be a ghost, from what I hear.” He shook his nearly round head, and it opened into a broad grin. “Instead you’ve turned Mang, it seems.”
“You have the advantage on me,” Perkar answered. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I’ve heard tell of you. My name is Morama, of the Clan Kwereshkan.”
Perkar lifted his brows in amazement. “My mother’s clan.”
“Indeed, if you are who you say you are. And even if you aren’t—” He shrugged. “—you are certainly a Cattle Person, despite those clothes, so we will welcome you.”
“I have companions,” Perkar said.
“Them, too, then.”
“Two of them are Mang; the others are from farther off still.”
To his surprise, the man nodded easily. “If you are Perkar—and I believe you to be—then we were told to expect that. You have my word and Piraku that they will not be harmed unless they attack us first.”
“I’ll bring your promise back to them, then.” He started to go but suddenly understood the full import of the man’s remarks. “What do you mean, you were ‘told to expect that’? Who told you?”
“My lord. He said to tell you, ‘I am a roadmark.’”
Perkar did turn back then, a faint chill troubling his spine.
Karak.
Hezhi lifted her small shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I
’m not sure what I pictured,” she told Perkar. “Something like this. It looks very nice.”
Perkar chewed his lip. She knew he was probably trying to suppress a scowl with a show of good humor. “I know it isn’t your palace in Nhol. But it has to be better than a Mang yekt.” He said this last low enough that Brother Horse and Yuu’han wouldn’t hear; the two warriors were nervously walking about the bare dirt of the compound.
“That is certainly true,” Hezhi said. “I’m anxious to see the inside.”
“That will be soon enough,” Perkar told her, dismounting. “Here comes the lord.”
The “lord” was a rough-seeming man, tall almost to the point of being gangly, dark-haired, and as fair-skinned as Perkar. Nothing in the way he dressed signified his station to Hezhi, but she reminded herself that these were strange people with strange ways.
Perkar’s people. It was the weirdest thing to see so many men—and women—who looked like him. Though she had always understood that somewhere there were whole villages and towns full of his tribe, she had always imagined that Perkar himself was somehow extreme, the strangest of even his kind. The Mang, after all, were the only other foreign people she had met, and aside from their odd dress, they much resembled the people she had grown up among. Unconsciously, she had thought of Perkar as she thought of Tsem and Ngangata—as another singular aberration.
These implicit notions of hers now vanished. Amongst the people of this damakuta she saw hair the light brown of Perkar’s and some as black as her own. But two people had hair the same shocking white color as Ngangata’s, and another had strands of what looked to be spun copper growing from his scalp. Eyes could be blue, green, or even amber in the case of the “lord” and two others she noted.
The damakuta—well, Perkar was right; she was disappointed. When he spoke of it in Nholish, he called it a “hall.” And so she had imagined something like a hall, or a court, like the ones in the palace. But this damakuta—first of all, it was wooden. For a wooden structure it was undoubtedly grand, and it certainly had a primitive charm with its peaked roof, hand-hewn shingles, and weirdly carved posts. To be fair, she realized that Perkar had described all of this—her mind had merely translated it into her own conceptions.
Of course, he had never mentioned the red-gold and black chickens poking about the yard, the dogs sleeping on the threshold of the damakuta, the curious and dirt-smudged children who played, more or less naked, amongst the chickens.
But Perkar was right; for all of that, it was certainly grander than a Mang yekt.
The “lord” approached and said something to Perkar that Hezhi did not understand. Perkar looked tired; the seams on his brow were deep with trouble, and whatever response he gave to the other man seemed uneasily given. He added something, as an afterthought, and then waved her and the rest to his side. Hezhi complied with a reluctance she didn’t entirely understand. There was some quality about the tall man’s eyes she found disquieting. When they arrived, however, he bowed to them slightly.
“Pardon the thickness of Mang speech on my tongue,” he told them. “It has been more than a day since I have spoken it.”
To Hezhi’s ear there was nothing wrong with his Mang at all. Probably Brother Horse and Yuu’han could tell he was no native speaker, but she could not.
“In any event, I am known as Sheldu Kar Kwereshkan, and welcome to my damakuta. Its rooms, its wine, its food are yours for the taking, and if aught else calls a need to you, do not hesitate to pass that request on to me or mine.” He turned to her. “Princess, I am told you have traveled far and far to be here. Be welcome.” His amber eyes fingered on her uncomfortably, but Hezhi smiled and nodded. It was probably, after all, only the alien color of his orbs that distracted her.
“Brother Horse, once known as Yushnene, your name is well known to my family. You and your nephew understand that you are under our protection here, and no harm shall come to you.”
“Very generous,” Brother Horse replied, perhaps a bit stiffly.
The tall lord greeted everyone else. Hezhi gazed back around the compound, wondering what the building might be like inside. She wondered if there might be a bath.
She sighed, ladling more water onto the steaming rocks. The liquid danced frenetically on the porous, glowing stones, and the next breath she drew was almost unbearably hot, though delicious. Heat gripped through her muscles to her bone, and soreness seemed to ooze out of her with her sweat.
It was like no bath she had ever known, but it would certainly serve.
Several other women shared the sauna with her; unclothed they were more ghostly than ever, white as alabaster tinged here and there with pink. They were polite, but Hezhi suspected that they were inspecting her with the same bemused regard. Men used a separate steamhouse, she was told, and likely that was where Tsem and the rest were. Perkar and the lord had gone off to talk alone; Hezhi suspected that he would ask for more men to escort them to the mountain.
The mountain. She’leng. She closed her eyes against the heat as another steam tornado writhed into the air. She drew up the images of her journey through the lake to that other She’leng, which she understood was in most ways the same as the one she was moving so steadily toward.
Why must she go there corporeally? She had already been there as a spirit, but Karak insisted that she must make the journey in the flesh. She ran her finger over her scale absently. It was quiet, untroubled, and yet still it had the power to trouble her. Someone was not telling her something. She hoped it was not Perkar, and even at that thought her heart sank, a tightening in otherwise relaxed muscles. Perkar had been so good to her these past few days. She still did not know what she felt for him, exactly, but his arms around her that night had been good, comfortable. Not disgusting as with Wezh, not full of trembling, silly excitement as with Yen, but quiet, and warm, and good. If Perkar were betraying her, too …
Unfortunately, she was forced to admit, he might be—if he thought his reason was good enough. She remembered her conversation with Ngangata. But that was before—well, she knew Perkar had some sort of feelings for her.
Or he wanted something, very badly indeed.
She frowned and threw more water on the rocks, reveling this time more in the sting of pain from the cloudy effervescence than in its more soothing results. No, she wouldn’t think that way. She would trust Perkar, as much as she could. She had to trust someone.
And if Perkar were plotting against her, what chance did she have?
What a silly thought that was, she admonished herself. As if she were without power. She had never been in the habit of trusting those around her with her life; why should she start now, when she had more resources within her than ever before? Had refusing her heritage from the River broken some self-reliant part of her? These past months she had counted on people more than she ever had in her life. Yet back in Nhol, when her very existence had been in danger, it had been she who found the answers in the library, in the tunnels beneath the city. Ghan and Tsem had helped, but it been her own initiative and hunger that saved her. Her only moment of weakness had been in summoning Perkar, in wishing for a hero. She had not known that her blood would mingle with the River and bring that about. She had not consciously been at fault. But her sin had been in wishing for someone else to help her, when real experience proved again and again that she could rely only on herself, in the end.
But Perkar had saved her then. Without him, Yen would have murdered her.
She tried to relax back into the steam, reclaim her peace in long-deserved luxury, but it was gone. Once again, she did not know enough about her own destiny. In Nhol, the library had given her the key to surviving, a golden key of information better than any lockpick.
Here books were of no use to her, but tonight she would invoke other ways of learning. She would have some answers before taking another step toward She’leng.
When they were alone, Perkar waited an instant, clenching and unclenching his fist—to calm down, to ma
nage his temper, to let memory counsel him rather than stir him to useless stupidity.
“I know you, Karak,” he snapped at last. “You cannot fool me, hiding behind the skin of a relative.”
The seeming of Sheldu Kar Kwereshkan merely smiled and gestured for him to sit. Nearby, a jar of woti sat in a warm pot of water; for the first time in over a year, Perkar’s nostrils and lungs were pleasured by its sweet scent, and his throat ached to feel the warm drink coursing down it. He almost salivated when his host poured two cups and handed one to him.
“Piraku,” the man said simply, raising his cup. Perkar raised his own, brought the fuming drink below his nostrils, and let the warm scent of fermented barley linger there. It was woti kera, black woti, the finest and most expensive form of the beverage.
“Please, drink,” his host insisted. “Why do you only inhale it? Drink!”
Perkar regarded the dark fluid once more and then carefully put the cup on the floor. “I am like a ghost, Karak,” he said. “You have made me like a ghost. The things of my people are no longer real to me, only shadows that I do not deserve. Woti is the drink of a man and a warrior, and I deserve only what a ghost enjoys of woti; its vapor. Only that for the man I might have been. I will never drink woti again, not until I have corrected my past mistakes.”
The man sighed, sipped his own woti, and sighed again. “It is a drink, Perkar,” he said. “A thing to be savored, enjoyed—not agonized over.”
“It is a drink for those with Piraku, and I have none. Nor, I suspect, have you.”
“Pretty thing, I was winging through the skies above this mountain long before any thought had been given to Piraku—or to your kind at all. I probably invented woti, though I don’t remember for certain.”
“You are Karak.”
The man took another sip of woti before answering. “If you accused the real Sheldu of having no Piraku, the two of you would be stabbing at one another with swords by now. Yes, yes, I have come to point your way. It is more than I thought would be allowed, but less than I had hoped for.”
