Diadem from the Stars

by Clayton, Jo;

  When Horli was a finger-width clear of the horizon, she pulled the stallion to a stop. He was hot and sweaty and his feet were dragging. Aleytys slid down and scratched him on the neck. Then she unhooked the waterbag and squeezed some water into her hands, holding it under his nose. He sucked it up eagerly and nickered for more.

  She looked around. One of the ruts in the road had an extra depth where it crossed earth instead of the thinly covered rock. She poured some water in the rut and let the horse gulp it down. She filled the hollow again, then splashed water over her dry skin and swallowed several mouthfuls of the liquid. After another few minutes’ rest, though, she grimaced and stood up. Catching hold of the saddle horn, she walked along beside the stallion and let him support part of her weight as they climbed higher and higher. As she stumbled on, she leaned her head against his neck and closed her burning eyes, letting him find their way up the road.

  Abruptly she was walking faster and faster until she felt as if she was flying; walking was so easy … so easy? The pain in her knees vanished. Mulak nickered. With a haze of weariness wheeling through her head, she looked around. Although the air still burned her lungs and cut like knives whenever she took a deep breath, she was walking on a more or less level patch of ground. On either side of the narrow rutted track, barren rocks soared to needle points. She smiled, then laughed outright. “The tangra Suzan,” she cried exultantly: “Mulak, we’re over the top.”

  Five minutes later they rounded a bulge of rock and stood at the top of a long downslope. Far below there was a distant flatness, blue and hazy, that went on and on to the edge of the world. “We did it, Mulak. That’s the Great Green out there.” She turned back and scanned the sky anxiously, sheltering her eyes with her hand. Hesh floated two hands’ width above the horizon. Aleytys sighed and set out again, downhill this time. As she wound down the steep switchbacks on the far side of the pass, she glanced back at Horli and smiled vindictively. “I hope high heat catches that bastard right in the middle of this frying pan.”

  Downhill walking proved even harder on her legs. Down and around she went until her knees threatened to unhinge completely. After the fourth switchback she dropped heavily onto a rock beside the trail and examined the soles of her feet. The skin was worn parchment-thin with stone bruises scattered in an abstract pattern of red-purple splotches over the ground-in gray background. “Ahai! Ai-Aschla,” she muttered She wiggled her toes and shook her head; they felt funny, numb, like they were encased in transparent sheaths. “Keep on like this,” she breathed, “and I’ll wear them off to my knees. Mulak, aziz-mi, I know you’re tired, but I’ve got to ride a while.”

  Down and down along a trail that seemed to stretch on forever. Rest at high heat. Rest so the horse could graze. Drink. A mouthful at a time. Move on. Down. Force down dry tasteless chunks of bread. Walk. Ride. Walk again to spare the strength of the horse. Down.…

  Three days down the mountain Mulak stumbled and fell to his knees, jolting Aleytys out of the saddle.

  She pushed up on an elbow and rubbed her aching eyes. With a vast effort, she managed to focus her eyes. The stallion stood with his head hanging, his gaunt sides heaving painfully. She sat up and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to think.

  With Hesh occluded, high heat was brutally uncomfortable but not deadly, so she had pushed hard. She looked at the horse. Too hard. With an effort, she stood up and swayed, nearly falling, while the world swung around her and finally steadied. She staggered over to him and knelt to look at the cuts on his knees. Weak tears spilling from her eyes in futile remorse for her thoughtlessness, she pressed her fingers over the wounds and let the power-river flow through her hands. The world reeled and grayed, then she plunged into blackness.

  Sometime later she woke to find Mulak pushing at her head with his nose. She lifted her hand to shove him away and was startled to find herself so weak. Trembling in every limb so that she had to move in infinitesimal increments, she finally managed to get to her feet. She clung to the stirrup and let her head settle and the dizziness pass away. Getting in the saddle was totally impossible. She didn’t even try.

  The next hour passed somehow, though half the time she was stumbling along automatically while her mind blanked out. Five times she woke to find herself in a heap on the ground with Mulak waiting patiently beside her. Each time it was impossible to get up but she did it, reaching the lake just as Horli began to slide past the horizon.

  The grass felt like heaven under her lacerated feet and the dark shade of the trees was a blessing to her tired, aching eyes. She tumbled into the water at the edge of the lake and let the coolness wash over her. She felt as if her skin itself were drinking in the water and it was cool, so cool, over her eyes.

  Mulak was nibbling at the grass, trying to eat around the bit. “Madar! Again. You’d think I’d learn. Sorry, my friend.” She splashed out of the water and stripped the bridle off, then the saddle and blanket. He whinnied with pleasure and began cropping eagerly at the lush grass on the bank of the lake.

  After that rest the travel was easier because the road followed the water and because Aleytys didn’t want to make the mistake again of running the two of them off their feet. But she never stopped long. She didn’t dare. She would plunge into the river with the stallion, washing off the outer layers of grit and salt-sweat, and along with them some of the aches and pains of fatigue.

  And always Tarnsian was there behind her. Sometimes the mind-touch would slip away and not return for hours. But she never let herself hope. It always came back. Sometimes the probe would be a frail shadow so tenuous she scarcely felt it. Sometimes it compelled so strongly, fighting it was like wading through deep water.

  She thinned, the strain and lack of proper food melted flesh off her bones. As the days passed she became sun-black skin stretched over those bones while her hair turned brittle and lank, caked and clotted together by sweat, dust, and her body’s minerals. Her hands were beginning to shake whenever she lifted them. They were so rough, bony, grimed with ground-in dirt, which mere rinsing wouldn’t wash away, that she hated to look at them. Mulak was in little better shape. The hurried snatches of grass and the constant moving on were wearing him down again.

  He stumbled. Aleytys compensated immediately, shifting her weight to help him recover. She patted him on the neck. “Whoa, boy, careful.” She slid off his back and looked him over. His ribs were beginning to show and his roughened coat was covered with white salt stains and dried froth. She shook her head. “Tonight we rest, mi-muklis. If he catches us, well, he catches us. At least you can get yourself a bellyful.” She stretched and groaned. “Ahhh-ahai, my stomach’s making love to my backbone.” She peered down the road. “I wonder how much farther to the tijarat.” Everything was beginning to fuzz at the edges for her. Her head ached dully and there was a sickening sense of foreboding that kept intruding on her. She pressed her lips together and led the stallion off the road under the trees.

  After she stripped him and sent him into the river, she pulled off her own rags and dropped them in a heap on the grass, pinning them under the saddle so a sudden gust of wind wouldn’t leave her naked. Walking cautiously over the tough slippery grass, feeling absurdly fragile around the knees, she waded into the river and began scrubbing Mulak’s sides with a handful of grass. He shook himself vigorously, showering her with large splattery drops of water. She smiled tiredly and let him heave himself out of the river and start grazing hungrily on the succulent watergrass. “I wish I had some corn for you,” she said.

  After rubbing as much of the grime as she could from her tired body, she wobbled over to a rock and sat down—a little harder than she’d planned when her knees suddenly folded. “Right now,” she murmured, a wry grin stretching her sore mouth, “I wish I had that piece of moldy cheese I started with.”

  She bent down and flicked a finger in the water, sending a tiny shower of droplets into the air. “I couldn’t do it before.” She rested her hands on her knees and sta
red down into the clear green water. “I had to let the fish go. Funny how one’s scruples fall away when it comes down to starving.” She reached out with her mind and found a small fish. Conquering her intense distaste, she teased it downstream to her reaching fingers. Scooping it out of the water, she tossed it onto the bank and stared determinedly across at the other side of the river while the fish flopped its life out behind her.

  A little sick in her heart, Aleytys plodded up the bank to her saddle. She slid the knife out of its sheath and walked reluctantly back to the dead fish. For a long minute she stared down at the slimy streamlined shape glistening opalescent in the strong light. Moments ago she had shared life with the fish, knowing it, in a way, more thoroughly than she knew her own hand. It might as well have been her own hand lying there, still, limp, dead. “I can’t,” she whimpered. “I can’t.” Then her stomach cramped again and her knees gave way, dumping her beside the fish. “Ai-Madar,” she gasped. “My baby.”

  Gritting her teeth, she ran the knife along the fish’s belly, feeling like a murderer. She gutted it, cut off its head, and threw the offal into the river. She poked at the limp fragment with the point of her knife. With a sigh and a slight shudder she caught an edge of the skin on the knife and peeled it back, baring the layered translucent flesh. She sliced a small bit off. Closing her eyes, she lifted it almost to her lips, then lowered her hand as sick revulsion shuddered through her. Then she dredged up the remnants of her determination. “I won’t give in to that man. I won’t,” she growled.

  Without any further hesitation she thrust the bit of fish into her mouth and chewed determinedly. To her surprise the raw fish had a cool clean taste, not strong at all, and a delicate chewy texture. Hungrily, she slivered off more fish until all she had left was a little pile of cleaned-off bones in front of her. Her stomach clamored for more.

  She waded into the water and summoned another fish and another, scooping them up, tossing them onto the bank. When she reached out for a third, she stopped. A little at a time, she thought. No use taking more than I can eat. She released the captive fish and watched it dart away.

  The last bites of the fish were a little hard to swallow. Looking at a pink-veined fragment, she sighed and tossed it into the river. After she cleaned up the bones and skin, she washed her hands and the knife, then lay on the grass and watched Mulak graze. He looked better already. “Mmm, that’s nice, isn’t it, aziz-mi?” Flipping onto her back with a laugh, she stretched and stretched until she felt her bones cracking. “Ahai, mi-muklis, I’m so tired of running … and running.…”

  The last tip of Horli slid down behind the edge of the world and the sky bloomed purple, red, gold. “I’d better put those filthy rags back on.” She shivered as the evening breeze slid over her bare skin. “If I just had time to wash them,” she moaned. “Or something else to put on.” Mouth pursed with distaste, she slid back into the sweat-stained, dirt-stiff clothes. Weariness splashed around in her, as if she walked six inches under water—she could almost feel waves sloshing up and down on top of her skull. With a sigh, she pulled up the saddle, wiggled around on the grass until she found a reasonably comfortable position, pulled the sweaty saddle blanket over her shoulders, and closed her eyes. As she drifted to sleep she felt a faint amusement as images of her first nights on the trail contrasted with her present destitution.

  A neighing broke through the darkness, followed by a vast rough something that rubbed damply across her face. Aleytys opened gritty eyes and focused on a black muzzle inches from her face. Once more Mulak shoved at her with his nose.

  She pushed his head aside and sat up, wiping her sleeve across her face. “Ahai, I could have slept another whole week.” She rolled over onto her knees and got stiffly to her feet.

  The night’s rest had worked marvels for the big animal. As Aleytys settled in the saddle a little later, he snorted and pranced about like a colt. She laughed with delight and kneed him forward. As she took off downtrail she glanced back over her shoulder. Horli had thrust her rim above the eastern mountains. Hesh will be coming out today, she thought and shivered. She swiveled around again and patted the horse on his arching neck. “No use moaning,” she said. “Look on the bright side, Leyta. We’ll have to stop longer at midday and so will he. Be better for both of us.”

  Whistling cheerily, she rode down the rutted road, reveling in a reborn sense of well-being. Then the black wings fluttered behind her again.

  14

  On the twenty-first day of her escape, she rode out from under the trees as Horli—with Hesh back on the north snuggling beside her belly—slanted down to the hazy western horizon. The tijarat fields spread over acres and acres of flat land. Great circles of posts joined by long split poles. Rows of tables weathered by the years to a velvety gray. Flattened spaces of stone-hard earth. Stone troughs at each of the circles fed by flumes leading to the river and a series of waterwheels.

  Aleytys sat numbly on Mulak’s back, hands gripping the saddle horn so tightly her fingers ached.

  One of the waterwheels was broken, another completely washed away, leaving only a spindly frame.

  The troughs were empty of water but filled with dust and debris.

  The wind from the plains blew across the empty tables.

  No one.

  Nothing.

  The ghost of a dream.

  The shadows of the nomad wagons slid over the close-cropped grass as Horli crept behind the horizon. The thief grunted and collapsed on the leather in front of his battered chon, finding a measure of relief in the shade as he massaged his aching legs and frowned fretfully at the busy nomads.

  Khateyat came around the chon. He looked up and saw her, sighed, and levered himself onto his feet.

  She nodded quietly in response to his grudging greeting. “Take the yoke and fetch water from the river,” she said crisply. “Bring it to my chon and wait standing until I come for you. Do not let the buckets touch the ground. Do you understand?”

  His pale eyes tightened into slits while the small muscles at the corners of his thin mouth hardened into knots. “I understand,” he muttered.

  With a last warning glance, she turned away and disappeared around the chon. Stavver went to the back of the Shemqya herret and lifted the yoke from its hooks, letting the buckets swing until they clacked harshly together.

  When he came back from the river with the dripping buckets swinging from the yoke on his shoulders, he stared thoughtfully at the ground, wanting to drag them across the earth to spite Khateyat. But he knew the futility of that. No way of fooling these witches. He grunted. She’d make me fetch more after pouring it out on my feet. He stopped in front of Khateyat’s tent and waited for her to come out.

  Khateyat swung, gracefully through the low entrance and nodded to him to follow her. She walked briskly out of the camp and climbed a low grassy knoll. The other Shemqya sat in a circle, eyes following their progress.

  Khateyat stopped him in the center of the circle. “Don’t move and don’t speak. N’frat. The basin.”

  “Yes, R’eKhateyat.” The girl jumped to her feet, lifting the large basin she had held in her lap. She brought it to Khateyat and stood in eager alertness’ and waited for the next exciting happenings in a life she found full of extraordinary and fascinating events.

  “Shanat.” Khateyat swept her eyes around the group. She frowned slightly at Raqat, then her eyes rested on the youngest one. “R’prat.” She beckoned them to the center. “Support the basin with N’frat.”

  “Yes, R’eKhateyat.”

  The thief could feel a growing tension in the air. More magic to twist and confuse his mind. He saw and felt the consequences of the incomprehensible things they did, but still couldn’t quite believe in them.

  “Move back a trifle,” Khateyat told him. “The water has not touched ground?”

  “No.” He tried to sneer but it didn’t come off.

  She looked at the buckets and nodded. “That is so. And good. There would be dan
ger otherwise.” She moved him so that the left bucket was nearest the basin being held by the three girls. “Stand thus. And be silent. What we do is none of your concern. If you interfere in things you know nothing of, your reward will be most unpleasant.” She lifted the bucket and poured the water into the basin.

  The interior of the heavy metal dish was a sooty black that turned the crystalline water into an unsteady mirror. The thief watched with covert interest as Khateyat bent over the mirror and whispered soft sibilant words that chilled the movement of the water until it reflected the gently floating clouds of the sunset sky. The whisper continued, going on and on until the first star in the darkening sky was imaged in the water.

  Khateyat straightened. “R’nenawatalawa,” she said softly. “Come.” Her voice was like a breath of wind sliding across the mirror. “You called me. Speak. Show us what we need to know. Show.”

  The water rippled. At first the thief thought the girls who held the basin had grown tired and faltered in their task. But the mirror rapidly cleared.

  Instead of the sky he was startled to see the image of a red-haired woman riding down a rutted road on a magnificent black stallion. She was thin and tanned, dressed in filthy rags, hair streaming behind her like a crimson flag. Pulling the horse to a stop, she looked around. The thief could see the river, the waterwheels, the deserted corrals as her eyes swept over them. Though the image was tiny, the outline of her form spoke eloquently of her despair. She dismounted slowly and stripped the saddle from the stallion’s back. For a moment she stood at his side gently stroking his neck. Then she slid the bridle off his head and slapped him on the flank so that he kicked up his heels and ran off. He didn’t go far, but settled down to a steady cropping of the sun-bleached grass. The girl … she was young, the thief thought. Very young. Perhaps even pretty. It was hard to tell. The girl sat down on a rock and stared at the river. After a few minutes, she gathered a pile of pebbles and began flipping them in the river.