Tournant darkened in irritation. “Idiot, what do you think?”
Entrechat’s gill-plumes drooped in disappointment. Behind it, Bombé bared its teeth at the unwelcome news, and Plié and Demi-Plié continued the interrogation. “Are you sure?” “How far did you go?” “Did you see any tracks?”
“Of course we didn’t!” Tournant snapped. “Do I need to sign it for you? There are no tracks, because there is no wizard, and if there ever was, he’s dead now.”
Its meeker siblings dove in a heartbeat: doubtless someone was already swimming down to the bottom to tell Prince Jeté about this latest failed expedition. Shea stayed where she was – lying on her side at the shoreline, keeping her skin wet and her good lung elevated – but her insides twisted with freshly-aggravated fear. Surely he was alive. Surely he hadn’t burned up in the fire. But then where was he?
“You don’t know that,” Porté admonished as they walked into the water. “Stop telling lies.”
But Tournant would not be placated. “So I’m lying! Well then, where’s the truth? Is it in you? Or them? Oh, I have an idea: let’s go over there and kick it out of that toothless old leech we’ve been towing all this way.”
In Shea’s experience, human beings tended to defer to their elders and their betters. The Emboucheaux, however, afforded respect to their biggers and their genealogical nearers... and Shea was neither. Without size or kinship or even the concept of a fairer sex to hide behind, she was no more reverend than an itinerant tramp who had been eating for days on her hosts’ dime, and had yet to make good on the bill.
Fortunately, these particular Emboucheaux seemed to have taken her difficulty in speaking Fraichais as equal indication that she couldn’t understand it, and often talked in front of her as if she were invisible.
Perhaps that was exactly what she ought to be. Shea camouflaged and began easing herself back into the water.
“You will not,” Porté said.
But Tournant was already wading her way – staring right at her. Shea froze at the casual menace in the big mereau’s eyes.
“No?” it said over the sound of its great water-churning strides. “Do you have a better plan?”
Behind it, Porté looked nervous. “Well, we could ask it where we should look next...” Its gaze darted from Tournant to Shea, its colors wavering in indecision. Then its voice changed. “Or you could – you could stop acting like a posturing lust-rotten earthling, and make a passing effort at maturity.”
Tournant stopped waist-deep in the current and turned. Behind it, two wide-eyed faces rose up from the water to watch. “Say that again.”
Porté backed up, but this was not submission: if you were going to fight on land, you had better find ground dry enough to dig your toes into. Its colors deepened, its gill-plumes flattened back against its head, and its posture stiffened to emphasize its broad-shouldered bigness. “I said you’re behaving like a rut-hungry surplus male, and everyone outside your arm’s reach is tired of it.”
More spectators poked their heads up from the water. Tournant lowered itself into a squat, its colors sharpening to midnight-blue and stark ivory white, its huge thighs tensing for the inevitable leap. Shea cringed at the sight. Porté was strong, yes, but those were slow, reliable cargo-loading muscles. Tournant was big – the kind of big that came from a lifetime of pushing and shoving and dominating its siblings at the dinner-fight – of using size and speed and casual, easy meanness to get what it wanted. “Apologize,” it snarled.
Porté splayed its toes out wide, and likewise lowered itself to spring. “Make me.”
It was going to get thrashed. Shea couldn’t bear to watch. “Stop!”
Two heads turned at her waterlogged squeak. “Or else what?” Tournant’s voice was soft, almost incredulous. Its dense, coiled body twisted ever-so-slightly in her direction.
Shea coughed, groping for an answer that would forestall the attack. “Or – or else –”
A gunshot echoed from the hills: a sharp, clear counterpoint to the smoke-shrouded landscape. In perfect sibling unison, nine pairs of wet black eyes turned their attention to the south.
Shea’s heart soared; she cleared her throat and smiled. “Or else we’ll be late to catch the wizard.”
VUCHAK BOLTED AWAKE at the deafening crack. For the first moment, he was nothing but confusion and pain. Then his two souls merged, and he began to understand the world. He heard Hakai’s panic-wrenched gasp as he was likewise yanked to wakefulness. He smelled the familiar coffin-stench, and saw the haze-blanketed afternoon sun.
And noticed the half, standing perhaps fifteen yards away with his feet apart, his back to them, and the rifle smoking at his shoulder. Just beyond him, the horse’s hooves pawed aimlessly at the ground. It rolled to its side, and eventually lay still.
Well.
Vuchak’s heart began to slow out of its breakneck sprint. This was unexpected, but fortunate: he did not need to know what had made the animal return to be thankful that its infected torment was finally at an end. The way in which it had met its end, however...
Vuchak opened his mouth to grouse at the half. Why hadn’t he let Vuchak accomplish exactly this same thing last night, at their first opportunity? And what did he think he was doing, making a great loud beacon of his gun like that?
Then he thought better of it. The half would probably be upset about the horse. And it wasn’t as if there was anyone out here who would know or care where they were at this exact moment. It was middle-afternoon already, but they would be far gone by the time night fell.
They would be across the All-Year River by the time night fell – into the Eiya’Krah.
It was a glorious, all-sustaining thought, and Vuchak could not wait to make it true. “All right then,” he said, his voice a painful, smoky rasp. “Hakai, scream if he looks like he’s going to shoot us. Otherwise, give him what Dulei hasn’t eaten when he comes back. Wake up, marka – it’s time to go meet the river.”
But Weisei, who had not woken for something as sleep-shattering as a gunshot, did not react at all to Vuchak’s prodding. He lay wrapped in his cloak, curled over on his side, utterly still.
Vuchak felt a terrible, weightless flutter in his stomach. He pulled at his marka’s shoulder, hard enough to roll him onto his back – and gasped at the sight.
There was nothing left of Weisei. He was nothing now but an open-mouthed, emaciated body. Hollow ribs and stomach – twisted, in-curled claws – goose-pimpled black flesh stretched taut over frail, protruding bones. Even the feathers of his hue’yin were falling off.
“... sir?” Hakai’s voice was a tremulous whisper.
Horrified, Vuchak dropped down and put his ear to Weisei’s chest. He still had a heartbeat – by Marhuk’s all-sustaining grace, he was still alive – but the heat in his flesh was dwindling. His divine fire was dying.
Vuchak sat up, reeling, and dragged Weisei up to lie with his head on his lap. “Give me that,” he said, and took the softening melon-slice from Hakai’s hands. He squeezed it just above Weisei’s mouth, determined to give his marka something, anything to keep him going, but the shape was all wrong and the juice ran stubbornly down Vuchak’s fingers and forearm and by the time he realized that he should have served it from his own mouth, most of it was wasted.
Vuchak’s breath caught in his throat. His face tightened, demanding tears that would not come. He hurled the crushed rind aside and pulled at his plaits, his souls threatening to come apart again at any moment. It was too much. The fiery rawness in his throat, the constant, blinding pulses behind his eyes, the intolerable greasy film in his hair and now this – after everything else, this –
A great shadow fell over him from the right. Vuchak looked up at the towering, two-colored shape above... and at the last of the melon-slices in its outstretched hand. “Tla-hey ah chan.”
Vuchak took the fruit, but could not immediately grasp the words. He was just on the verge of asking Hakai to translate when they finally reord
ered themselves in his ears.
Tlahei achan.
Hold fast – there is more still to come.
Vuchak swallowed. He’d said to the West Wind that he wanted to be different – that he wanted to try again. He let his free hand come to rest above the hem of that nearest blood-stained pants leg. “Thank you, Ylem.”
And when he was sure his words had been equally understood, Vuchak turned back to Weisei to try again.
ELIM DID NOT stay to watch as Bootjack bent over his prince again. He walked aside, and let the Sundowners have their peace.
But it was powerfully difficult to feel any peace of his own. Even now, after they’d made it through hellfire and all the rest – even now, after he’d looked Ax square in the eye and done the hardest thing – there was no stillness inside him. Mostly there was just that same anxious fear, now shared about equally for himself and Way-Say. He didn’t want the Crow prince to die. He couldn’t bear it. And if the worst did happen, knowing that Bootjack probably wouldn’t have the guts to go through with his threat didn’t ease Elim’s mind at all. He looked out at the ghostly gray peak of the nearest of the mountains, and tried not to notice the still black shape in the foreground. There was a great, sincere part of him that wanted nothing more than for Way-Say to live and recover... but underneath it, like a lump under a homespun quilt, was that same selfish, uncrushable hope that maybe helping to save one of the Crow God’s children would get him off the hook for killing another.
“That was kind of you,” Hawkeye said.
The manservant came to stand beside him, sucking the life out of the fruit-rind that Bootjack had thrown aside. Elim quickly looked away, telling the angry dryness in his mouth and that bone-deep ache in his chest exactly what he’d said to them a minute ago: one slice of pagan cantaloupe wasn’t but a drop in the bucket for a fellow of his size... but for poor dried-up Way-Say or an old tenderfoot like Hawkeye, it might make all the difference.
Which wasn’t to say that Elim might not ask for a return on the favor. “Hawkeye, please tell me that that ain’t my doing.” He stared down at his wadded hands. “That it won’t, you know – that it wouldn’t be my fault.”
Hawkeye left off sucking his fingers. “Not at all,” he said. “You were right to share our concern about your diseases, but it was those bodies that made him ill. Have you noticed that he hasn’t been sick since the day before yesterday? We’re far enough away now that they’re not affecting him anymore. He just needs water – and then he’ll have an appetite you won’t believe. You’ll see.”
That was comfort as luscious as a whole pile of melons. Elim nodded, though it took a moment to get himself sure on the facts. It wasn’t too late. He lived in a world where he could hurt people without one evil, intentional thought in his head – maybe without even noticing what he’d done – but that didn’t mean he was fated for it. It didn’t mean he was helpless to change.
Elim hauled in a deep breath, one that came smelling of Hawkeye’s sweet, peculiar pipe-smoke. And there was comfort in that too. “All right. Thanks, buddy – and, you know, for all of these last few days. I sure do appreciate it.” He opened his mouth to ask what they ought to do now, and then stopped. Maybe he could figure it for himself. “Reckon we ought to get packed up?”
Hawkeye tossed the barren rind aside and sighed. “I reckon we should,” he said, as if tasting the novelty of a new word. “What do you want to take?”
Elim glanced back at all of what they had saved from the fire, though he already knew what his fair share would be. “Well, ‘want’ ain’t really the word for it.”
BY THE TIME Vuchak had done what he could for Weisei, his thoughts were almost calm and orderly again. It was bad, yes, but it wasn’t over. He had his god, his reason, and at least a little strength left. He knew what to do, and now they had only to do it. But as he stood and turned to make ready for leaving, he was amazed to see that he was apparently the last to be visited by that thought.
At sight of him, the two slaves stood up and gathered their things. Hakai had made a crude rope pack, tying together their weapons, empty water-skins, and the last of their food. He had a job to do in shouldering it without striking Vuchak’s spear on the ground, but managed with admirable grace. Meanwhile, the half – Ylem – had turned the horse’s harness into a makeshift funeral net, and stooped to heave Dulei’s box up over his back. He staggered as he did it, either from weakness or the effort it took not to be sick from the smell. But his legs lifted and his shoulders strained and by the time he was stable on his feet, even the paler parts of his face agreed with his back and stomach that no, they would not falter in their resolve.
And neither would Vuchak. He bent and lifted Weisei over his shoulder, so much more carefully than he had at Yaga Chini, as now his marka weighed so much less. He did not thank the other two for their faithfulness or diligence: no-one here had shouldered anything but the weight of his own obligations. But he gave them a respectful nod before lifting his chin at the road ahead. At his signal, they turned, and all three of them set out into the dim afternoon sun.
Hold fast – there is more still to come.
More, yes... but not much more. Vuchak had faith in that. One way or another, they would finish with misery. One way or another, it would end today.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE DROWNING SONG
IN THE DREAM, puppies. Fearful puppies. Teeth-baring puppies. Puppies lunging forward. Puppies falling down. Puppies lying still.
Sad.
Sad.
Sad.
Día could not have said whether the gunshot that woke her was real, or something she had dreamed. Regardless, she was glad for it: wherever her mind had been in sleep, it was far, far less pleasant than the waking world.
And that was saying something. Día sat up, stupefied all over again. The afternoon sun was already hanging low in the sky, a sullen red disc glowering behind a dark, hazy blanket of stagnant air. And as it was in heaven, so it was on earth: the blackened ground stretched out as far as she could see – an endless, lifeless testament to her faith.
Día felt sick. “Mother Dog?”
There was no answer – perhaps because there was no dog.
She got to her feet, cold ash crumbling between her toes. “Mother Dog, where are you?”
Then, as before, the only answer was one that Día gave herself: the dog had tired of waiting with her, and gone off in search of whatever she had been so desperate to find last night. Día was alone.
And that was absolutely unbearable. “Come back,” she pleaded, turning in frantic little circles, scouring the murky horizon for any sign of life. “Please, please come back. Don’t leave me here. Tell me I did the right thing. Tell me I didn’t – that nobody was...”
She couldn’t say it. Día swallowed, grappling with a fresh, insidious fear. What if she had, though? What if she’d killed someone? The a’Krah might still be out here, and Elim and Halfwick and who-knew-how-many other travelers – not that the number made much difference. If even a single person had choked or burned or died screaming because of her...
The nausea was overwhelming; her breath came quick and shallow. She wanted to encourage it, to vomit, cry, faint – anything to exorcise the intolerable horror inside her. But at the end of it, she would still be left with this same, hideous feeling – this same damning what-if.
She dropped to a squat and pulled her dreadlocks across her face, desperate to lose herself in their scent. They were her strength – that was what her father had said when he made them – her reminder that she was an equal, essential, inextricable strand in the order of God’s creation.
Even if she’d turned this particular part of it into a barren, smoldering hellscape.
Even if He was conspicuous by His absence just now.
Well, and what about Him?
He could have saved everyone. He could do anything that pleased Him.
And right now, apparently, it pleased Him to leave her here in t
he ashes of her piety. To use her as long as was expedient – in setting Halfwick on his way, retrieving one of the Ikwei, doing He-knew-what by her fiery intervention last night – and then to discard her. Like Halfwick. Like Miss du Chenne. “Well?” she said to the indifferent sun. “Was it wrong? Was it not enough? After all this, have I not done enough?”
They were terrible, useless questions, but Día could not find it in herself to care: after days of subsisting on nothing but dog-milk and faith, she had finally run out of both, and her fear ignited as an incandescent, clean-burning rage. “I WOULD APPRECIATE THE COURTESY OF AN ANSWER!”
She yelled at the top of her lungs, but got no reply. The ground under her feet smoldered, but there was nothing left to burn. So Día did the next best thing, untied the denuded cord from around her waist, and hurled the last of her prayer beads out as far as she could.
It was a silly, petty thing to do, but that suited her perfectly. If heaven had no more need of her just then, she would be delighted to indulge her own earthly whims. And at the moment, she had a powerful thirst for something ordinary: real food, clean water, and living human company.
So she walked off, shielded from the sun by shade of her own making, with no quest more pressing than her own satisfaction.
ARE YOU SURE?
Yes, prince! Entrechat replied, its signs sloppy with excitement. Three of them, all together and coming this way!
What do they look like? Shea interjected, far beyond caring what Jeté would think of her temerity. She could not bear even one more disappointment.
The three scouts answered in unison. Entrechat darkened its forearms and face to near black, its torso to a muddy red, and its legs to a lighter tan color. That had to be an a’Krah, wearing a traditional shirt and leggings. Bombé divided its colors similarly, though with slightly lighter skin and a great black strip across its eyes. Another a’Krah, or one of their servants. And Pirouet mottled its face to a mix of brown and white, with a palm-sized brown spot over its left eye.
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