by Gregory Ashe
Chapter Eleven
A noise caught Irwa’s attention. She looked up, trying to pierce the thick brake with her eyes. Maribah motioned for her to stay silent, and Irwa nodded grimly. They had been hunted ever since that night in Jan-as-Subh, but by unseen hunters. The Fourth Corner. She rode forward on the narrow track, scarcely more than an animal trail, in single file behind Maribah. The crack of another twig. Maribah reined in her horse, a broken-down farm animal stolen along the way, and Irwa followed suit.
Branches and leaves burst out as a rabbit broke through the bushes, scampering across the trail, eyes wide with panic. A fox appeared a heartbeat later, disappearing into the brush in pursuit.
Irwa pressed one hand over her heart, a foolish smile coming to her lips. Maribah let out a low laugh. “I’ve felt like that rabbit for almost a week now,” she said, urging her horse forward again. She shook one hand, and Irwa watched a few last flickers of flame die out in the still air.
“You’re far from a rabbit,” Irwa said. “I imagine the next fox that finds us will be just as surprised at your tricks as the last one was.”
“Or at yours,” Maribah said, with a smile. “I wasn’t the one who saved us that night.”
Irwa made no response. She had come to terms with killing again, to some degree—in truth, in a way that she had never imagined possible. Kill or be killed, self-defense. Forms of murder sanctioned by Ishahb, but still murder, and yet, somehow, after the initial shock and horror had faded, Irwa found herself feeling justified. The old feeling of power, of rightness. I committed no crime, she thought. I have done nothing wrong; why should I give up my life? If Ishahb permitted self-defense, Irwa found herself more than happy to agree with her god. Yet, at some level, deep within herself, she knew she had changed, reverted back to something she had sought to leave behind. She felt a particle of some unknown emotion—at times she thought pity, at times horror—that could not be reconciled with her changing perspective.
It had been hard to work through those initial feelings of terror and guilt. Irwa knew that a week was not nearly enough time to sort everything out, and so she let herself think and ponder, and time and again she returned to feel out that infinitesimal remainder of horror, testing it like a healing bruise. For all her new-found self-justification, Irwa knew that killing had returned, a stain on her soul that could not be wiped out by changing her name, by joining a religious order. She took some consolation in that fact.
And so, for the first time since leaving Amghar, she could think of one part of her mission calmly. That somehow she was to be a part of another man’s death, although it grieved her, was understandable; she had come to understand the cruel edge of balance and necessity, and she trusted her god. She felt unable to close the door to her past for a second time.
As though tracking her thoughts, the other woman said, “You kept those abilities to yourself for a long time.”
Irwa said, “I’m not comfortable using them.” Another long pause followed, and Irwa prayed the woman would let the matter drop.
Ishahb was deaf today, it seemed. “The shaik had mentioned your skills to me. He said you were one of the most talented Khaman sorcerers he had known.” Maribah’s voice sounded amused as she added, “Of course, he told me all of this only after swearing me to secrecy. He insisted that I not reveal your abilities to the Fourth Corner; apparently the shaik has lost more than one talented priest to my order.”
Irwa shrugged, even though the woman could not see her, and said, “I’m afraid the shaik may have misled you.” After a pause, she added, “I didn’t know that everyone knew about my . . . art; I feel like a fool for having tried to keep it a secret.”
“Oh I’m not sure that many people know,” Maribah responded, pushing a branch out of her way. “Qathir has an uncanny ability to smell out useful people and, perhaps just as importantly, to use them for just the right purpose. He was the one who helped me into the Fourth Corner in the first place.”
Irwa could feel the woman fishing for more information, could sense the hook that hid behind the bait of conversation. She sighed and said, “Maribah, I’ve come to appreciate you as a companion, even as a friend. Please don’t think I’m rude to say that I don’t feel comfortable talking about this, even with you. It’s nothing personal.”
Maribah’s back stiffened. She said, in an even voice, “Of course, I understand.”
No you don’t, Irwa thought miserably. She could read the misunderstanding in Maribah’s rigid lines. “I don’t like being a practitioner,” she said. “I’m not like you, I don’t like using it, I don’t want to use it, or have it, or know it.” The words came out in a rush.
The younger woman turned around, a surprised look on her face, and said, “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to press you. It’s just . . .” She stopped, wincing as she caught her head on a low-hanging limb.
Irwa let out a chuckle, more out of nerves than at the woman’s discomfort. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”
With a chuckle, Maribah turned around. As she rubbed the back of her head, she said, “It’s my own fault, not watching where I’m going. It’s not just riding; I tend to get caught up in the moment. Anyway, I don’t mean to push you, but I need to know—need, mind you, or I wouldn’t ask. Your art is a critical part of the shaik’s plan, and I need to know if you can’t, or won’t, use your magic.”
Irwa could not see the other woman’s face, but she could hear the carefully measured weight behind the words. What happens if I give the wrong answer? Irwa thought. Ishahb bless me, I don’t even know what the right answer is; what if I say I will help, and I can’t? She hadn’t tried to open anything past jal, and that slipped away from her every single time. Irwa tried to look inside herself, to hear, to feel Ishahb’s presence, but she found nothing, only the same thoughts, cycling over and over again. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I need time to think about it, to pray about it. If it is Ishahb’s will, I’ll do what you need, or find a way. Ishahb will provide a way.”
“And how will you know if it’s Ishahb’s will?” Maribah asked.
“That’s a strange question from a priestess,” Irwa said. “What would you tell a member of your congregation, or a fellow priest who came to you for advice?”
Now it was Maribah’s turn to be silent. “We should focus on the path,” Maribah said, “or we’ll be in the foothills until the snows fall.” Then she brought the reins down smartly and hunched over the horse’s neck.
Irwa followed, puzzled at the other woman’s behavior. It was not the first time Maribah had shown discomfort in talking about religion, but her attitude had steadily worsened from that first morning when they prayed together. Irwa’s concern for Maribah, though, dissolved quickly into her own worries. Whatever modicum of peace Irwa had found in self-defense, in taking a life, she could not bring herself to find that same accord in the use of her art. More importantly, she did not want to be at peace with the cheira.
The day passed that way, moving in and out of the small clumps of forest, thick with undergrowth, and open spans, following the road up through the steep foothills that marked the border of Greve Sindal. The mountains rose in sharp peaks to the west, broken occasionally by deep valleys, until they curved out east, far to the north, and jutted out toward the Aiyala River. That night, the wind from the valleys blew so hard that it threatened to put out their campfire, and Irwa found herself shivering under her blanket, the late summer heat carried away by the incessant breezes. The air was dry here, on the steps, even with the river close by, and the wind drowned out the noise of insects and birds, until Irwa thought she would go mad with only that low whistle echoing through her head, making any thought of sleep impossible. She had said vespers already, as they rode, the evening prayers falling from her mouth as the sun slid behind the mountains, sending waves of orange fire racing down the snow-capped peaks. She had stopped her prayers then, overcome by that piercing, flaming arrow of beauty.<
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Sleep did not come, though. Maribah’s even breathing told Irwa that the other woman did not share her difficulties, a point that Maribah had seemed to try and make clear when she lit the fire awkwardly with flint and tinder, instead of her art. I suppose I should have thanked her for that, Irwa thought, her eyes opening as she gave up her most recent attempt at forcing herself to sleep. I hadn’t expected that kind of consideration from Maribah. The woman was nothing like what Irwa had thought the Fourth Corner to be. Perhaps a little proud, but not unduly so, considering her talents. The harsh, ruthless face of Ishahb’s justice though, the dark hand of the church—well, Irwa thought, perhaps I have seen that. It was a side of the younger woman that was reconcilable only through faith, which made Maribah’s own lack of faith so troubling to Irwa. What allows both sides to exist? she wondered. Maribah is kind, and innocent in many ways, and yet somehow she has inside her a capacity for callous violence. She is what I once was. What I am becoming again.
The question that hung most on Irwa’s mind, that swam beneath the surface of those thoughts and darted out when she felt the first tug of sleep, was the cheira. Ishahb had not answered her vespers, had not answered that question: must I open the cheira? Irwa could feel her own tumult of feelings, roiling within, a vicious, viscous mess. She felt the old lure of the cheira, the feeling of invulnerability, superiority. The call of power that hung inside her like the last reverberations of a struck bell. She had known those feelings before; a goddess, with ants surrounding her. And I thought I had left that all behind.
That was the cruel joke that hid under her skin like shards of glass, cutting her only when she moved in the right direction. She had fled power only to seek it again, inside Ishahb’s church. But to help people, she cried out against that self-inflicted pain. To help myself, power that blesses, that doesn’t control. Irwa could feel the distinction, even if she could not voice it.
And against that call to power, that ambition to open the cheira completely, just this once, so that she could help more people, was the bared fear of self that rose in her throat, a flood to drown her in darkness, from the inside out.
And Ishahb does not answer.
Irwa woke. She lay with knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around her legs, as though shielding herself from blows. Her back and arms ached, stiff from sleep. Long bands of sunlight ran across the spread out hills and plains below, kissing the dark waters of the river with thin, perpendicular edges of white. Irwa pushed herself up, yawning and stretching, and crossed her protesting legs under her. Time to pray.
She felt better when she had finished. Irwa had come to no decision, but the daylight, the prayer, helped settle some of those thoughts. At least for now. If Ishahb would not tell her what to do, then Irwa would choose as best she could, and she mistrusted the voice that told her that, just this once, opening the cheira would be ok. The memory of the Fourth Corner attack stayed with her, though, as a counterpoint to her decision. She stood up before the cycle of thoughts could begin again.
“You don’t look well,” Maribah said, sitting near the fire that blazed merrily above cold ashes. “It’s not because I did this,” she pointed to the conjured flames, “is it?”
Irwa shook her head. “I did not sleep well,” she said. “And it does not matter if you choose to use your art; it won’t bother me. I’m sorry if I upset you yesterday.” She moved to join the other woman near the fire and reached down to the pack with provisions.
“Upset me?” Maribah said, her dark eyes widening in surprise. “No, not at all.”
“If I choose not to help you,” Irwa began, then took a bite of an apple, chewing to give herself time. “What then?”
“I don’t know,” Maribah said. “I’m not sure why we are removing this man, other than that it is Ishahb’s will.” Her mouth twisted into a faint smile when she said it, almost wistfully. “I imagine that your shaik will have something to say about it though; you could be removed from the priesthood, or perhaps killed, to silence you. Another sacrifice to Ishahb.”
Irwa could feel the slightest edge of pressure behind the words, the threat that Maribah used almost unwillingly. “I am a sacrifice to Ishahb,” Irwa said. “Every day of my life. Still,” she said, catching the flat expression on Maribah’s face, “I have not yet decided, and until I understand Ishahb’s will, I will do what I have been asked.”
Maribah said, “That’s all any of us can do, I think.”
They rode hard that day, following the road north until they reached the broad canyon that led west through the mountains. The going was slow once they entered the canyon; the road was poor, littered with fallen rocks, and in many places broken. “The satrap of Greve Sindal had better take a look at the roads,” Maribah said after another detour around a massive boulder that had fallen onto the road. “He’ll be lucky if a single merchant arrives with wagons and goods intact.”
“How long is the pass?” Irwa asked, guiding her horse around a section of broken paving stones.
“At least another full day of this,” Maribah said. “It depends on how bad the road is, and if the bridges are still standing. Judging by all this,” she said, “we’ll be lucky if we make it to Fakholme before winter sets in.”
They were halfway across the next valley when a shout startled Irwa. She pulled in her horse, listening to the echoes die away. Suddenly a man appeared from a pile of rocks, running toward them with a sword, and an arrow thudded into the ground next to Maribah’s horse. More men had appeared on the other side of the road, emerging from behind fallen stones, or rising up from deep crevices, with slings and swords, and several with crossbows.
Maribah drew a cheiron in the air, the furnace blast of heat washing over Irwa, and began speaking the hepisteis. Thick clumps of mist appeared.
“Ride,” Maribah shouted, kicking her horse.
A flurry of crossbow bolts flew at them, ripping through the quickly spreading fog. One caught Maribah’s horse in the hind leg, and the horse screamed and stumbled. Maribah flew from her seat and struck the ground hard, rolling side over side. Irwa reined in and turned.
More bolts clattered against stones. Irwa rode toward Maribah. Fear gripped her gut so that she could barely move. What do I do? Maribah stood, blood pouring down her face from a gash along the side of her head.
Dark shapes appeared in the fog, and another volley of bolts came through. One grazed Irwa’s arm, leaving a dark line of red in the sleeve of her gray dress. What do I do? This was not like when the Fourth Corner mage had attacked; there were so many men. Her hand itched to open a gateway.
A sizzling ball of energy—not fire, but a sphere of shimmering blue—flew out of Maribah’s outstretched hand. It struck an invisible barrier and spread out into a wall of ice, sending ripples through the mist.
“Run,” Maribah screamed at Irwa through a mask of her own blood. “They’ve got a practitioner with them.”
Shame rushing over her in waves, Irwa turned her horse and kicked it into a gallop. She looked over her shoulder and saw men appear out of the fog. Maribah rose into the air, arrows of fire lancing from her hands toward the men on the ground. A crossbow bolt struck the young woman and sent her flying back into the mist, and she disappeared from Irwa’s sight.
Irwa kicked her horse, over and over again, with a frenzy born of panic. The poor animal frothed at the mouth as it raced across the uneven stone. With a scream and the crack of broken bones, the horse hit a ditch, and Irwa flew off its back. For the one long moment that Irwa was in the air, she realized what a fool she had been. Then she hit the ground, and everything went dark.
When her vision cleared, only patches of mist remained. Maribah. Irwa pushed herself to her feet. Her face was on fire with pain, and Irwa could not seem to close her mouth properly. When she stood, her injured ankle gave out again, and Irwa screamed when she tried to catch herself with an arm that she realized, too late, was broken.
Suddenly a face swam int
o her blurred vision. A man, a coarse, untrimmed beard covering his face, stood over her with a long knife in one hand. “Meik,” the man cried. “I got one of them over here. That means I get first go at her.”
Boots crunching on stone, and then another voice. “You get what I give you,” the other man said. “This one’s beat up bad; you’ll be lucky if she doesn’t up and die on you while you’re on top of her.”
The man she could see made a face and sheathed his knife. “Well, I get the first round, so if she does give out, I’ll at least let her die a happy woman.”
Horror rose in Irwa. Pain washed over her as the shock of her fall faded. She screamed.
“If she’s making noise like that,” the unseen man said, “you can have her. Course, all the women you ride make that kind of noise, so you’re probably used to it.”
Horror. Blessed Ishahb, she thought through the pain, praying, desperate. Too late, she tried to mouth the hepisteis, brought her only good hand up to trace a cheiron in the air.
“Two witches,” the unseen man said.
Something struck her head then. As Irwa lost consciousness, she heard the bearded man say sadly. “Just my luck. A witch.”
Darkness.
