by Greg Keyes
He sat up and rested his chin on his knees. “What have you heard? What have you heard the men saying?”
“They fear you. They will be glad to be quit of you. And they think that Moss is very clever in his plan to dispose of you.”
Ghe frowned. He knew the first two things, of course. His senses were keener than men thought; he could make out even distant conversations, if he cared to listen. They feared him because they suspected the men who disappeared were his prey—which, of course, they were. Since his killing of the grass-bear, his reputation had grown, but it was the reputation, he saw now, that one might credit to a feral beast, not to a man. He was respected because he was feared, and the Mang believed that their shaman could keep him in control.
They were wrong. Moss was indeed powerful; he kept many souls within him, as well, but his control over them was of a different nature, and he did not draw his sustenance from life the way Ghe did. His hunger was not a weapon. In a contest between Moss and Ghe, Moss would lose.
“I must think on this,” he muttered, arising and donning an elkskin robe. He pulled it so as to cover his naked body, drawing it up high around his neck and holding it bunched there with one hand. Without a backward glance at Qwen Shen he brushed through the tent flap and out onto the meadow. He stalked toward the tree line, a lean wraith in the night.
The “Lady” could have been sent to him by Moss. He knew Moss could send dreams, because he admitted sending them to him and to Hezhi, as well. But what purpose would such a dream serve the shaman, unless Qwen Shen were right, and Moss was trying to frighten or weaken him?
He thought back over the shaman’s story; how he had been captured by Perkar and escaped by summoning one of his familiar demons, how he had held Hezhi in his very grasp and then lost her, fled here to meet him, and organized this forced march by contacting his captains in their dreams. His hope, he said, was to stop Hezhi before she reached the source of the River, where Perkar and some barbarian “god” were leading her. But now that he scrutinized that story, it made little sense. Perkar’s aim had always been to keep Hezhi away from the River, deny her heritage to her, probably to father some litter of white whelps on her in some squalid wilderness cottage. Why would he take her to the River’s very source?
Maybe Moss was lying. Qwen Shen had a keen, incisive mind; the emperor had chosen her well for this expedition, and the River had chosen her well for his lover. She came thus highly recommended, and her advice until now had been good, very good. If he had listened more carefully to her all along, and less to Ghan, things would be very different now. And now that he thought of it, Moss treated Ghan well, brought him to ride beside him, lavished attention on the old man, as if they were old friends. He claimed that this was to honor Ghan because Hezhi loved him, but what if, somehow, the old man and the young Mang shaman were in league?
That made perfect sense. Ghan had led them into the trap of sailing upstream, knowing the dragons would not survive it. Ghan had made contact with the Mang before, even sent things to Hezhi through them. And when his plan to wreck the barge succeeded, was it not a suspicious coincidence for the Mang to be there, at that very spot, awaiting them? As if they had been informed of the scholar’s plan? And to what purpose? Not to lead him to Hezhi, but to lead him as far from Hezhi as possible. While he journeyed to She’leng, she was racing away, farther away each moment.
He had reached the tree line now. He shuddered with self-fury at his stupidity. It was difficult to think sometimes, this far from the River. But that could be no excuse; he was Hezhi’s only hope, the River’s only hope. He could not betray them through weakness of mind, not when he was this strong otherwise.
Moss had been sent to confuse him and had done a good job. He could not out-think Moss in this state, and if he confronted him, challenged him to tell the truth, the Mang would merely spin some plausible web of lies—and he, dulled by distance from his lord, might succumb to deceptive, honeyed words. Better not to give him the chance; better to confront him only with death and be done with him. Then he could torture the truth from the shaman’s soul, once he had captured it.
That decided, he stepped from his robe and gathered darkness to him instead, sheathed himself in armor made of night; it was a simple trick, one he knew from devouring an odd little god in the form of an owl. He gathered a second armor of wind about himself and lifted into the air, and in that instant, Death and her embrace seemed a distant, impossible thing. He pulled the strands of wind like reins, commanding them to take him to Moss’ tent.
“Eat more,” Moss told Ghan. “You’ll need your strength in the high country.”
“No I won’t,” Ghan stated flatly. “I shall never reach the high country. Your new ally, Ghe, will devour me before ever we get there.”
Moss considered the chunk of venison between his fingers, licked a bit of grease from it. “I think not. His tastes are for gods now, not for men.”
Ghan gazed up at him dully. “Then why do soldiers still disappear each day?”
“Some are deserting,” Moss pointed out.
“Yes. Because they know that their fate is to be evening repast for a monster.” Ghan shot the younger man a pointed look.
Moss sighed. “I have protected you thus far, Grandfather.”
“I’m no one’s grandfather,” Ghan snapped.
Moss crinkled his brow in frustration. “It is considered mannerly to address an elder so.”
“Is it also considered mannerly to march me across these foreign lands against my will? To force me to aid you in a cause I want nothing to do with? Why put fair paint over rotten wood by addressing me courteously?”
Moss finished his meat and followed it with a sip of wine. “As you wish, old man. In any case, what I was saying is that I have protected you thus far and I will continue to.”
Ghan snorted. “You are a fool, then. Don’t you know what he is? You cannot protect me from him.”
“But I shall, you have my word.”
“How relieved I am,” Ghan sneered.
Moss grinned. “You really should eat something. I don’t want Hezhi to think I starved you when we find her.” He paused and then lifted his wine cup again. “She loves you, you know. I think if I could have really convinced her that I would reunite the two of you, she would have joined me.”
“What do you care about this?” Ghan exploded suddenly. “I have held my peace, hearing you talk about her, but what is it that you want? Ghe is a mindless sort of thing, and I know what the River wants of her, but you …”
“I want only peace,” Moss replied mildly. “I want my relatives to stop dying. And I want my people to have the blessing of the River as yours do.”
“It is no blessing,” Ghan snarled. “It is a curse. It is a curse for those who bear his blood and it is a curse for those his children rule. This is a misguided desire you have.”
“So it may seem to you,” Moss answered shortly. “But I know better.”
“Of course—” Ghan began, but Moss’ eyes suddenly blazed, and he jabbed his finger at Ghan.
“I know better,” he repeated.
Ghan slowly closed his mouth on his unfinished retort. There would plainly be no fruit from a conversation that branched from that tree. He slowly gazed around the meager furnishings of the tent, gathering energy for another try.
“Will you kill her?” he asked dully. “Will she die?”
“Old man, she will die only if the Blackgod has his way. If I win this race and this battle, she will live to be the queen she was destined to be. She will unite all of the people of the River in a single kingdom. That I have seen.”
“With you at her side?” Ghan asked, carefully this time.
Moss shrugged. “It matters not where I am then. My work will be done. When she is queen, the sort of power I command will mean nothing. The little gods will be swept away and the world will be clean of them. The mountains and plains will be home to men and only men. And there will be peace, without the li
kes of the Blackgod meddling in our affairs.”
There, Ghan thought. There is a tender spot. What experiences had shaped this boy? He was beginning to see the glimmer, the veiled shape of his motives. If he could understand those, perhaps he could talk real sense to him. For the moment, however, he lowered his voice to nearly a whisper.
“But I ask again, why do you ally yourself with the Life-Eater, this ghoul?”
“Because only he has the power to see us to the mountain. The gods will resist us each inch of the way. We have already been attacked thrice, did you know that? Each time Ghe disposed of the sendings. I might have done so, but only after terrible struggle. And when we meet the Blackgod himself—”
Ghan held up his hand. “You keep saying ‘Blackgod,’” Ghan muttered. “But this word? In my language, ‘god’ is used only for the River. What do you call him in your tongue?”
“Many things. Mostly we call him ‘Blackgod.’”
“No,” Ghan snapped. “Say it in your language.”
“Yaizhbeen,” he complied, clearly puzzled.
Ghan chewed his lip. “Wait, wait,” he muttered. “Zhbeeti means ‘black.’”
“So it does,” Moss replied, bemused.
“In the old language of Nhol, zhweng was the word for black.”
“I have noticed our tongues are similar,” Moss said. “Your name, for instance, and my profession, ‘Ghan’ and ‘gaan.’”
“It is not my name,” Ghan said. “It means ‘teacher.’ But there is another word in the old tongue: ghun. That means ‘priest.’” He mused, clenching his fist before his face, all other thought forgotten, save the puzzle. “Ghun Zhweng.” He whirled on Moss. “What if I were to say gaanzhbeen in your language? What would that mean?”
“It would mean ‘black invoker, black shaman.’ It is merely another name for the Blackgod, for he is a wizard, as well.”
“How stupid.” Ghan scowled. “How very stupid of me. When Ghe told me about the temple, I should have seen it. But what exactly does it mean?”
“What are you talking about?”
Ghan snorted. “Our priesthood was founded by a person known as Ghun Zhweng, the Ebon Priest. Do you see?”
Moss stared at him, openmouthed. “Your priesthood was founded by the Blackgod?”
“So it would seem.”
“Tell me this tale. How can this be?”
“Ghe visited the Water Temple. Beneath it he found—”
Moss wasn’t listening to him anymore. His eyes had glazed. “This will have to wait,” he whispered. “It may be that you should leave.”
“Why?”
“Something comes for me.”
“Something?”
Moss looked back at him, eyes hardening. “Yes, perhaps you were right. I don’t understand why, but Ghe is coming for me. He just slew my outer ring of guardians.”
I know, Ghan thought frantically. I know why he is coming for you. Because Qwen Shen holds his leash, and Qwen Shen is from the priesthood, and the priesthood … was a creation of the Blackgod. And whatever else this Blackgod was, it was an enemy of the River and of all of his blood. He was Moss’ enemy—he was Hezhi’s enemy, though she knew it not.
“Leave,” Moss repeated.
“N-no,” Ghan stuttered. “I think I can help you.”
“Why would you help me?” Moss asked, rising, facing the tentflap. Outside a wind was rising.
Ghan started to answer him, but Moss dismissed him with a simple wave. “Go. I have no more time to speak to you.” His body had begun to blur faintly. At first Ghan thought something was wrong with his eyes; then he understood. He had seen the emperor thus resonate with power. Moss stepped outside. Ghan followed quickly, as far as the tent opening, to watch.
Something roughly Human in shape and size hovered perhaps ten feet off of the ground; wind gyred about him, sparks from a nearby cooking fire dancing madly in his cyclonic path. The figure itself was darker than the surrounding night, a nothingness.
“Why do you come to me thus?” Moss demanded somewhat mildly. “Why do you slay my guardians when you have only to ask to pass them?”
“You have tricked me,” the shadow said, and it was Ghe’s voice, of that Ghan was certain.
“I have not, and I know not why you think I have, but we should talk.”
But Ghe was apparently in no mood to talk. Light gouted from the sky as if the substance of the heavens somehow had been slit open. It ruptured into a million starlike fragments that cooled from white to violet and finally to a sullen red, all in the briefest instant, and then, like a swarm of bees, the summoning fell upon Moss. Moss himself sprang back, and Ghan saw that he had produced a drum. He struck its head and shouted, and the fiery hornets were seized by pandemonium, flying everywhere. Many struck the tent, which instantly burst into flame.
Meanwhile, something huge and dark was forming beneath Ghe.
“Ghe, you idiot!” Ghan shrieked in the brief, pregnant silence. “You fool!”
Whatever was coalescing suddenly blazed yellow as a vaguely tigerlike thing leapt from Moss’ drum and shattered itself upon the small cyclone around Ghe. Ghan saw a skeleton of something snakelike sublimating and then nothing at all. The shadow cloaking Ghe burned away like a tissue, revealing him naked, grinning, still above them, his outstretched hand against the sky. But in the next moment he languidly brought both arms down in front of him. He held up a single finger as if for their inspection, and Ghan could see that it terminated in a lethal-looking talon.
Moss had stumbled, his drumbeat faltered, but now he regained his feet and began a frantic chant. But Ghan was only faintly aware of him. What caught his attention was Ghe, drawing his own talon along his wrist. Blood drooled out, and Ghe dropped his hand; the black liquid trickled down his fingers, and he flicked droplets out and away from him.
They fell on the earth, and in each spot they struck, something erupted. The air was suddenly thick and sweet with the smell of blood, earth, and corruption, with the storm-scent of lightning striking.
Ten grass-bears arose, shook their great, flat heads, and attacked Moss.
Ghe turned then, to Ghan. “And now for you,” he said, and advanced, walking down to him as if upon invisible stairs.
XXXII
Beauty
“I remember you now,” Hezhi said, her voice small. “But before you were—”
“Yes, I have many suits of armor, many forms I may wear. Not as many as Karak, perhaps, but sufficient,” the Huntress answered.
“You wanted to eat me before,” Hezhi said, trying to summon some bravery to calm her voice.
“Yes. Perhaps I will yet, sweetmeat, but not at the moment. Karak’s silly plan has finally come to my attention, and when I saw you coming, I thought to speak to you.”
“Oh?” She felt a faint relief wash over her, but kept a firm grip on her skepticism. Could she fly faster than the Huntress? Perhaps she and the bull could, but she did not want to lose the mare and the swan.
“Yes. I have some things to show you. We will travel together.”
As she said this, the mare and swan shook themselves as if waking. “Come.” The Huntress turned from them and began loping across the land. “Stay in my prints,” she called back over her feline shoulders. That commandment was simple enough to keep—the pawprints of the lion blazed the earth, blurred together into a trail of heatless flame. Hezhi rode with the bull, the swan on her shoulder, the mare just behind them so that they were really one, an eight-legged chimera with wings. Surrounded by her beasts, Hezhi felt confident again, but now she knew how illusory that confidence was, and she did not allow it to overwhelm her.
Running in the footsteps of the Huntress, their speed increased fivefold. The otherworld blurred into a void of transmuting shapes and colors.
When at last they stopped, it was upon the edge of a precipice; below stretched a plain.
“Here,” the Huntress purred. “This is as close as we dare approach—for the moment.”<
br />
“Approach what?” Hezhi asked, wondering what the Huntress could possibly fear.
“There,” the Huntress answered. “Take your swan through the lake, there, and look—but only from a distance.”
“Can I do that?” Hezhi asked doubtfully.
“Yes. I will guide you.”
Hezhi cast another uncertain glance at the plain, and her keen eyes caught something, strange even in the otherworld. It looked something like a spider, or perhaps a spider and its web somehow become a single thing; a mass of tangled black strands and faintly multicolored bulbs that writhed aimlessly as they crept across the earth. “What is that?” Hezhi asked, pointing.
The Huntress growled, deep in her chest, before replying.
“That is what the Changeling sends to reclaim you,” she answered. “I have watched him grow from a seed of death into that mockery of gods and men that crawls where no such thing should crawl. Long have we tolerated the Changeling, for his power was so great, and, after all, he lay quiet in his bed most of the time. Now he sends things like this out and about. For that affront I have chosen to help Karak kill him.”
Hezhi turned to face the lioness. Crouching on the stone, she had changed a bit in appearance. Her fierce feline visage had crushed itself flat, so that the brilliant points of her teeth now gleamed from a face that somewhat resembled that of Ngangata or Tsem, but harsher, more brutal. The cords of leonine muscle had altered subtly so as to be more Human in appearance, as well, though Hezhi counted, with startlement, eight breasts on her tawny chest and belly.
“Why do you need us?” she asked. “I have a little power, it is true, but it is as nothing compared to yours. Perkar is handy with his enchanted weapon, but he told me of encountering you once before and how easily you dispensed with him. And yet every step of our journey has been planned by you gods. You cajole us and order us—I suspect one of you attacked Moss and the other Mang who followed us.”
“That last was one of Karak’s pets,” the Huntress confessed. “But as to the other questions …” She leaned close, until the stink of rotten meat steamed in Hezhi’s face. “I am not wont to answer questions. But you have been brave, and you command Hukwosha. And who knows, if all goes well you will have more power yet, before it is over, and perhaps I will ask favors of you. But listen, for I will not tell you a second time.” She glanced—almost furtively—back at the spidery thing on the plain and then continued. “In the mountain, you met us all. Balati the One-Eyed Lord, Karak the Raven, Ekama the Horse Mother, and myself. But we are not separate things, and at times we do not exist at all. In all of the mountain, there is really only one god, and that is Balati. But Balati is vast, and ancient, and his tendency is to let this part of himself go this way and that part of himself go another. Karak is the one who is the most unfettered, the least like the rest of us in will and in purpose. Balati, he of the single eye, is where our true home resides—much as your spirits now reside in your heart—but he is a slow god, moving to the cycles of the earth and sky, not to the little moments and heartbeats that living things cherish. That I cherish.
