Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  Aituatea backed off. Ludila Dondi was chanting as she circled, a drone of ancient words with a compelling complex rhythm. When the doors flew open and he saw her coming up out of the bed, he thought she was completely naked, but now he saw the mirrors on the silver chain about her neck, the tinier mirrors dangling from her earlobes, others set in wristlets on each arm. She moved her body, her arms, her head in counterpoint to the rhythm of the words, dancing the glitters in a web about herself, trying to weave a web about Brann.

  Brann stalked her, avoiding the wild yellow eyes, avoiding the mirror lights, gradually tightening the spiral.

  Firesphere Jaril darted at the Dondi, shattering the rhythm of her lights and each time he dived, Brann got a little closer.

  The Tekora flung off the mastiff, his torn flesh closing. He threw himself at the bed, came curling up with the sword, rolled onto his feet again. With a grunting roar he charged at Brann.

  The mastiff Yaril was suddenly a long snake that whipped itself up and around the Tekora’s legs, wrenching him off his feet, dissolving before he could cut at it with the sword he still held.

  Firesphere Jaril came an instant too close to the witch, touching one of the mirrors; the sphere tumbled through the air, melting through a dozen shapes before it was a boy curled in fetal position on, the rug. His fall distracted the Dondi for a second only, but it was enough. Brann’s hands slapped about the Dondi’s ribs; she hugged the smaller woman tight against her, caught her mouth, held her mouth to mouth, muffling the witch’s shriek of rage and despair.

  As Yaril melted, Aituatea was on the Tekora, the foot of his good leg jammed between arm and shoulder, hands in a nerve hold on the Temueng’s wrist. The Tekora writhed and struggled but couldn’t break the hold. Aituatea dug his knuckles in. The Tekora’s fingers opened. Aituatea caught the sword as it fell, leaped back, took the Temueng’s head off as he surged up, the sword answering his will like an extension of his arm. He swung it up, whirled it about, grinning, suppressing an urge to whoop; but all too fast his elation chilled. The Tekora’s headless body stirred, hands groping as it got clumsily to its knees. Something bumped against his foot. The Tekora’s head, mouth working, teeth gnashing as it tried to sink them in his flesh. He kicked the head away, wanting to vomit. A hand brushed against him, tried to grab hold of him. He sliced through the body’s knees, kicked the severed legs in separate directions. The body fell, lay still a moment, then the stumps began moving. They found no purchase on the silken rug until the torso raised itself onto its elbows and pulled itself toward him. He cut off the arms at the elbow, groaned as the hands started creeping toward him. He kicked them away but they started crawling for him again.

  The kiss went on and on, the witch withering in Brann’s arms-but withering slowly, too slowly, there was too much life in her. Yaril landed beside Jaril, changed. She reached toward the boy, fire snapped between them, then Jaril was up looking around. A look, a nod, then they joined hands and two firespheres darted into the air. They threw themselves at the Soul-Drinker, merged with her until her flesh shimmered with golden fire and the three of them finished drawing the life out of the Dondi.

  Brann dropped the woman’s husk, the fire flowed out of her and divided into two children, sated and a bit sleepy. She stared down at the thing crumpled at her feet and shuddered.

  Aituatea kicked away a creeping hand, walked over and stared down at what was left of the Kadda witch. An ancient mummy, leathery skin tight over dry bones. “Never seen anyone deader.”

  Hotea came from the shadows. “Put her in the water; she has to go in the water.” She rushed to the nearest window and tried to pull the drapes aside, but her hands passed through the soft dark velvet. She shrieked with frustration and darted back at them. “In the water,” she cried, enraged.

  Brann nodded. “This one’s too strong to he careless of, let the water rot her and the tides carry her bones away. Open the window for me, or would you rather carry that?” She waved a hand at the husk.

  “Gahh, no.” He stepped over a wriggling leg, a crawling hand, circled the silently mouthing head, pulled the drapes aside and opened the shutters.

  Wind boomed into the room, cold and full of sea-tang, blowing out the lamp, stirring the silken quilts, almost snatching the shutters from him. It caught at the shorter hair by Brann’s ears, teased it out from her face, bits of blue-white fire crackling off the ends. She wrinkled her nose, brushed impatiently at her hair, her hand lost among the snapping lights. “Hold your head on,” she muttered at Hotea who was chattering again and jigging about her. She lifted the husk, grunting with the effort, carried it to the window and eased it through. Hotea at his shoulder, Aituatea stood beside her and watched the husk plummeting toward wind-whipped water as Hotea had half a year ago, watched it sink.

  Hotea gave a little sigh of satisfaction, tapped her brother on the cheek. “A wife,” she said. “Mind me now, get you a wife, brother.” Another sigh and she was gone.

  Aituatea rubbed at his shoulder. Rid of her. He stared out the window seeing nothing. He’d cursed her silently and aloud since she’d come back dead. And he’d cursed her alive and resented her. She’d taught him most of what he knew, stung him into forgetting his short leg, scolded him, comforted him, kept him going when times were bad. Always there. And now he was rid of her. Alone.

  “Hina.” He heard the word but it didn’t seem important. “Hina!” Sharper voice, a demand for his attention.

  “What?” He turned his head, searching vaguely for the speaker.

  “That sword. The one you’ve got the death grip on. May I see it?”

  He looked down. He was leaning on the long sword, the point sunk into the rug, into the floor beneath. He had to tug it free before he could lift it. He gazed at it, remembering the aliveness of it in his hands, shook his head, not understanding much of anything at that moment, and offered it to her.

  She looked down at her hands. They glowed softly in the room’s shadowy twilight. “No. Better not. Lay it on the bed for me.” She hesitated a moment. “Hina, let me touch you.”

  “Why?” Apprehensive, still holding the sword, he backed away from her.

  “Slya’s breath, man, you think I want more of this in me? Got too much now. Listen, you’re tired, sore, we’ve still got to get out of this and down the cliff. I can give as well as take. You’ll feel like you’ve been chewing awsengatsa weed for a few hours, that’s all. All you have to do is take my hand.” She held out a hand, palm up, waited.

  He looked at her; she seemed impatient. His hip was a gnawing pain, he’d used himself hard this night, his shoulders and arms ached, he had toothmarks on one foot and cold knots in his stomach. “The weed, huh?”

  “With no hangover.”

  “I could use a look at Jah’takash’s better side.” He tossed the sword on the bed, closed his hand about hers.

  A feeling like warm water flowing into his body, gentle, soothing, heating away his aches and pains, washing away his weariness. Only a breath or two, then she was pulling free. He didn’t want to let go, but was afraid to cling to her. He opened his eyes. “I owe the Lady of Surprises a fistful of incense.” He looked from the sword-a long glimmer on the silk of the quilt-to the sheath on the wall above the bed. “That’s what you came to Silili for, isn’t it.” He climbed on the bed, pulled the sheath down and slid the sword into it, jumped back onto the floor.

  “Right. The Serpent’s Tooth, Sulinjoa’s last sword, the one he forged for what’s-his-name, your last Hina king. It always cuts the hand that owns it, so the story goes. His wife, she was supposed to be a demon of some sort, she cursed the sword when he quenched it the last time in the blood of their youngest son.” She took the sword from him, no hesitation now, pulled it from the sheath, clucked at the bloodstains along the blade, used the edge of the drape to wipe it clean, moving the velvet cloth gently over it, then held the blade up to the moonlight, clucked again at the marks the blood had left. “Have to work on this once I’m ba
ck on the ship.” She slid the blade with slow care into the sheath. “Your king took off Sulinjoa’s head with it so he’d never make a finer sword for someone else. The Temueng who made himself emperor, he used it on the king and gave it away to a supporter he didn’t much like.” She chuckled. “That one didn’t last long either.”

  “Who’d want it with that history?” Aituatea eyed the sword with revulsion, then remembered how it’d felt in his hand. He shook his head.

  “The man who’s going to pay me five thousand gold for it.” She looked down, grimaced and kicked away the hand that had brushed against her foot. “No friend of mine which is just as well, looks like the curse is still going strong.”

  Aituatea grunted and went hunting for his knife, unwilling to leave any piece of himself in this place. When bright light suddenly bloomed about him, he glanced up. A firesphere floated above him. “Thanks.” he muttered. He found the knife leaning against the side of a cabinet, wiped it on the rug and tucked it away. The light vanished.

  Brann was leaning out the window when he straightened. She drew back inside. “Dawn’s close. We better get out of here.”

  Giggles flitted by Aituatea. From a shimmering point above the bed, finger-long gold bars, silver bars, rings and bracelets cascaded in a heap on the silk.

  “Yours,” Brann said. “Courtesy of Yaril and Jaril. They thought you ought to have some compensation for your latest loss.”

  An owl was suddenly in the room, hovering over the bed, a plump leather sack clutched in its talons. Its hoots like eldrich laughter, it sailed through the window and disappeared into the night. A second owl with a second pouch appeared, flew after the first.

  Aituatea passed a hand across his face, disconcerted. In the events of the past moments, he’d forgotten the sense of dislocation that had chilled him when Hotea vanished. Now he resented both things, being reminded of that loss and having his feelings read so easily. But this was no time for indulging in resentments or grief. He shucked a case off one of the pillows, raked the gold and gems into it, tied the ends in a loop he could thrust his arm through, leaving both hands free. “Back the way we came?”

  “Unless you know how to get past the causeway guards.” she tucked the sword under her arm and started for the door. “You can take me out to the ship if you will. She’s due to lift anchor with the dawn.”

  THE FOG WAS blowing out to sea, the wind changing from salt to green, the smell of day and land and coming storm on it. As Aituatea worked the boat toward the willow grove, he saw the sky flush faintly red behind the Temple roof. More than one kind of storm coming, he thought. When someone steels himself to look into that room and finds the Tekora in still wiggling pieces. Hei-yo, Godalau grant they blame the Kadda wife for it since she won’t be around. No way to tie me to it, not now, not with Hotea all the way gone. He tied the boat up, splashed through the shallow water to the shore. In the distance he could hear drums and rattles, the Woda-an celebrating the departure of the blind ship. Drinker of Souls, you’re not a bad sort, but I hope I never see you again. Tungjii bless you, though. Never thought I’d miss Hotea like this. Aching with loneliness, he pushed through the dangling withes and trudged up the slope toward the abandoned godon.

  In the warm and scented room, he sat with the brazier providing the only light, a bowl of wine in one hand, a stone jar of wine on the table beside his feet. He’d put his dirty bare feet on the table deliberately, meaning to provoke Eldest Grandmother into scolding him. The sounds she made in his head were no longer words but they were comfortably familiar. He sipped at the wine, thinking about Brann, wondering who the fool was who sent her after that cursed sword. He thought about Hotea. She’s right, I should find me a wife. Someone who could stand to live here, definitely someone who knows how to keep her mouth shut. He stretched out in the chair until he was almost lying flat, crossed his ankles and balanced the wine bowl on his stomach. Not till the storm’s blown out. Both storms. He took a mouthful of wine, let it trickle its warmth down his throat, smiled sleepily at the ghosts that were gathering about him. He thought he could see some new faces among them but was too lazy to ask. It’s over, he thought. Really over. Me. Aituatea. I killed the Temueng Tekora. Sort of killed him. He grinned.

  “Let me go off a little while and look what happens. Drunk. Disgustingly drunk.”

  He jerked up, spilling the wine, looked wildly about. “Hotea?”

  Her crystal form was hovering over the brazier, picking up red light from the coals. “You got another sister I don’t know about?”

  “I thought you were gone to rest.”

  “Not a chance, brother, not till I get you safely wed to the right woman.” She gathered in several female ghosts and led them to surround him. “Listen, Kellavoe’s youngest. Word is her hands are almost as good as mine, can strip the eyelashes off a dozing dragon. Living with her uncle these days since the Temuengs hanged her father and you know old Kezolavoe, meaner than a boar in rut, but she doesn’t complain. Good girl. Loyal to her kin. Be doing the child a favor, getting her away from him…”

  “Ohh-eh, slow down, I’ll take a look at the girl, but after the storm, if you don’t mind, sister.” He got to his feet, went to set out the dishes for the ghosts. “Why don’t we all celebrate? Sniff some wine and help me tell the tale of the raid on the Tekora’s palace.” He began filling the dishes with wine, feeling his body and spirit relax into a familiar irritated contentment. Plenty of time, good friends and a growing family. He looked about, counted shapes and set out another of the shallow bowls. Definitely new faces in the mix, some Hina, some Temueng and a Woda-an. He stepped back, lifted his bowl. “To family ties,” he said. “Old and new.”

  The ghosts sighed, bathed in the wine’s fragrance and exuded a contentment to match his own.

  2. Brann’s Quest-The Flight from Arth Siva

  BRANN SITS AWAKE. Bleeding into memory, all the sounds about her, water sounds, muted shouts from deck and masts, ship sounds, board and rope talking to the dawn, wind sounds, sighs and long wails. She sits at a small table, dawn’s light creeping in, painting images across her body. The mix of sound and smell reinforces the quiet melancholy that awakened her and drew her out of bed and to the chair, her hair falling about her face, the das’n vuor pot held between her hands. Black deeps on a base as thin and singing as fine porcelain, the true das’n vuor from the fireheart of Tincreal.

  She breathed on the pot, rubbed at the surface with a soft rag. Whoever had you took good care of you. Well why not? You’re a treasure, my pot, ancient though you are. Almost as old as me. A hundred years, more. Doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. The years have flown, oh how they’ve disappeared. She put the rag down and held the pot tilted so she could look down into the black of it, seeing images, the faces of father, brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, of her mother suckling long dead Ruan; saw herself, a thin energetic girl with mouse-colored braids leaking wisps of fine hair. A long time ago. So long she had trouble remembering that Brann. She drew a finger across the black mirror, leaving a faint film of oil behind. Is the road to Arth Slya open again? Are the Croaldhine holding the tri-year fair in Grannsha? I’d like to see it again. Jupelang-I think he’s the one-said you can’t step in the same river twice. Even so, I’d like to see the valley again no matter the changes or the hurt. No place for me there, but I’d like to walk the slopes of Tincreal again and remember that young Brann.

  She smiled with quiet pleasure at Chandro shipmaster when he rolled over half-awake. More memory. Sammang, my old friend, you gave me a weakness for sailing men I’ve never regretted. Blinking, Chandro laced his fingers behind his head and grinned at her, his teeth gleaming through a tangle of black, the elaborate corkscrews he twisted into his beard at every portcall raveled into a wild bramble bush. He yawned, savoring these last few minutes in the warm sheets smelling of both of them, a musky heated odor that mixed with memory to make a powerful aphrodisiac. She started to put the pot down and go to him, but the ma
te chose that moment to thump on the door.

  Chuckling, Chandro rolled out of bed, stood stretching and groaning with pleasure as he worked sleep out of his big supple body. He patted at his beard, looked at her with sly amusement. “Save it for later, Bramble love, won’t hurt for keeping.”

  She snorted, picked up the rag to clean her fingerprints off the pot.

  When he was dressed, his beard combed, he came over to her and looked down at the gathered blackness in her hands. “Das’n vuor. I could get you a thousand gold for that.” She snorted again and he laughed. “I know, you wouldn’t part with it for ten thousand.” He brushed her hair aside, kissed the nape of her neck and went out, whistling a saucy tune that brought a reluctant fond grin to her lips.

  Quietly content, she burnished the pot.

  In the black mirror her woman’s face framed in white silk hair blurs, elongates into a skinny coltish girl with untidy mouse-colored braids and grubby hands that look too big for her arms. She sits in a grassy glade among tall cedars, a sketch pad on her knee, jotting down impressions of a herd of small furry coynos playing in the grass…

  ON THE DAY of Arth Slya’s destruction, Tincreal burped.

  Brann leaned over and flattened both hands on the grass beside her, feeling the rhythmic jolts of the hard red dirt, relishing the wildness of the mountain. She tossed her drawing pad aside, gabbed for a low-hanging limbtip and pulled herself to her feet, her eyes opening wide as she felt the uneasy trembling of the tree. Around her the cedars were groaning and shuddering as the earth continued to shift beneath them, and birds spiraling into air stiller for once than the earth, a mounting, thickening cloud, red, black, blue, mottled browns, flashes of white, chevinks and dippers, moonfishers, redbirds and mojays, corvins, tarhees, streaks and sparrins, spiraling up and up, filling the air with their fear. She gripped the cedar twigs and needles, starting to be afraid herself as the groaning shift of the earth went on and on, shivering. After an eternity it seemed, the mountain grew quiet again, the rockfalls stopped, the shudderings calmed, and Slya went back to her restless sleep.